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Flower and Thorn 




» 


Flower and Thorn 

By Beatrice Whitby 

Author of 

**The Awakening of Mary Fenwick” 

** One Reason Why” 

Etc. 



New York 

Dodd, Mead & Company 
1902 



‘■’'is*''''' 


TMP M8XARY ©F 
OONG«ES 3 . 
Two OOMM flECfrvea 



MAR. t2 1902 


O ^y n wiiT ■nthv 


OLASe O/ XXa H«. 

} t ^ 

COPY B. 


Copyright, 1901, 

By Dodd, Mead & Company. 


Published, ^farch, igo2. 



( < C < 


C ( t < < 





< t ( 


THE BURR PRINTING HOUSE, 
NEW YORK, 


Flower and Thorn 


'i 




CHAPTER I. 




% 


“Rain, sun and rain ! and the free blossom blows ; 

Sun, rain and sun! and where is he who knows? 

From the great deep to the great deep he goes.” 

— The Coming of Arthur. 

Mrs. Guthrie was paying a stiff price for a 
month’s sea air on the east coast, and she was not 
. getting her money’s worth ; lamentable scats of rain 
had for twenty-four hours beaten against the lodg- 
ing-house. The lady in question was an invalid ; she 
had not gone to Felixstowe for enjoyment — she had 
never at the best of times a faculty for enjoyment — 
she had gone because her doctor had ordered her to 
do so. Now she lay like a martyr on her couch, lis- 
tening to angry bursts of wind and rain that shook at 
the French window of her sitting-room. 

In fine weather she spent whole days on the sands, 
sallying thither painfully enough on her crutches, 
to lie listening listlessly to the monotonous drum 
of the waves. She never read nor sewed; she never 
occupied herself at all; she spent all the strength 
she had in “resting.” 


2 


Flower and Thorn 


Nevertheless, she was an adept at finding employ- 
ment for those about her. Her niece Jane and her 
son David were never idle if she could help it. In 
her gentle way she broke in those youngsters thor- 
oughly. The boy, David, took the weather more 
philosophically than did his mother. 

David was not a rattling, breezy, inconsequent 
schoolboy. He was quiet, thoughtful, old for his 
fourteen years. Though he was an only child, he 
had had no over-share of indulgence. Poor Mrs. 
Guthrie was far too interested in her hip and her 
headaches to spare much attention for her son, who 
was as strong as a horse and as self-contained as 
his father. 

Mrs. Guthrie was in no relation of life a success. 
No elements of success were in her. She expected 
a vast deal, but she gave little. In her girlhood she 
had not been happy; her mother had not come up 
to her moral standard of what a mother should be. 

Though she had fallen in love with great ease, 
emotion, and frequency, her affections had been 
easily quelled by disappointment. 

Finally her husband had disappointed her; that 
had been a serious matter for them both. She had 
none of the vaunted strength of the New Woman, 
but she had thirstily imbibed all the requirements 


Flower and Thorn 


3 


of those Amazons. The end of it was that neither 
husband nor wife were broken-hearted when cli- 
mate finally effected a judicial separation between 
them, Colonel Guthrie remaining in India to serve 
his time in the Bengal Cavalry, while Mrs. Guthrie 
settled in England to see after David’s education, 
and to have a hand in the boy’s moral development. 

She expected a great deal of her son, and 
though, for his age, he was a model of manners, 
morals, and consideration, yet David was not quite 
all her fancy pictured a son should be. 

When he was by, he certainly waited on his 
mother assiduously, but he had a knack of being 
out of her reach. He would carry her couch to the 
beach, arrange her pillows, and help her thither, 
but as soon as she was comfortably established at 
her post he would be off. “He was selfish,” she 
said; “heigh-ho, ’twas a most selfish world,” 

Now on this wet afternoon David, after having 
finished his library book, grew restless; he loafed 
to the window, watching the rain and the grey 
monotony of sea, listening to the wind that swayed, 
the ill-grown clump of trees and rustled the untidy 
bushes of stunted shrubs in the neglected garden of 
Harland House. 

And as he watched, he kicked at the already 


4 


Flower and Thorn 


damaged wainscotting of the window. This care- 
fully reared boy, whose youthful instincts had been 
disciplined from his birth, was thrown off his bal- 
ance by a few hours of bad weather. 

“Oh, David, have mercy on my head. Dear boy, 
do something. This is the sort of day on which to 
get forward with your work. You are not clever, 
and if you fail for Sandhurst I shall break my heart. 
Do some mathematics, they will at least keep you 
quiet.” 

David turned away from his window docilely. 
He was a tall boy, broad-shouldered and lean- 
flanked. His features were good, he was pleasant 
to look at, but he gave people the impression of 
being older than his fourteen years: so quiet, so 
deliberate in action, so slow of speech was he. His 
mother’s strenuous efforts to put an old head on 
his young shoulders had taken effect upon him to 
a certain point. 

The boy had only one passion, which was for 
soldiering. Brain or no brain, he would be a sol- 
dier. He would “get through” somehow. He let 
the games which he loved go to the wall; he worked 
till his head was woolly and his understanding dim, 
in the effort to make sure of the awful examination 
that was looming many and many a month off him 


Flower and Thorn 


5 


still. How often Mrs. Guthrie had quoted his tu- 
tor’s opinion, how often she had picked out that 
small disparaging remark from amongst a modify- 
ing environment, and told her son that “he was not 
clever.” 

“He will do better than others with double his 
wits, Mrs. Guthrie — he means it; but he is not 
clever. His work, I should rather say, does not 
come very easy to him.” 

That had been the tutor’s judgment, from which 
Mrs. Guthrie extracted the nucleus, “You are not 
clever.” It did not do for a soldier to be a coward, 
but David was afraid of his own stupidity. He 
turned to his mathematics dutifully; every duty on 
earth, save the duty of happiness, had been im- 
pressed on the boy. How soberly his grey eyes 
looked out on the neutral-tinted world around him. 

He had settled down to his work and a silence 
would have reigned in the room, such as Mrs. 
Guthrie required for “resting,” had not the upstairs 
lodgers defied decency by a sudden outburst of rev- 
elry in their precincts overhead. Feet pattered, 
laughter rang, diversified by war-whoops and war- 
like outbursts of din and tumult. 

David smiled at the sounds, but his mother 
groaned. The boy was naturally affectionate and 


6 


Flower and Thorn 


sympathetic, so when the uproar heightened, his 
smiles died, and he looked round anxiously at the 
invalid. 

“Ring the bell, David, I cannot bear this. I 
spoke this morning to Mrs. Browne; I told her 
that those new people were insufferably noisy. I 
told her that unless she could keep them quiet I 
should most certainly leave this house. People are 
so inconsiderate, so selfish.” She spoke fretfully; 
fretfulness was a sign of weakness which touched 
her son. 

An over-worked maid, with an impassive, anae- 
mic face, answered the bell at her leisure, and per- 
haps did not hurry herself to deliver Mrs. Guthrie’s 
message, begging for a cessation of tumult; for the 
upstairs lodgers continued the pandemonium, in- 
creasing rather than modifying the pace. 

Tears filled Mrs. Guthrie’s eyes. 

.“Mrs. Browne says there is but one child and a 
governess in those rooms. Do you hear that 
pounding, that earthquake, that avalanche? Oh, 
David, my head throbs, I cannot bear it. It must be 
stopped. Go yourself, dear boy. Jane is shopping 
for me in the town, or I would have sent her. Go 
up to the room yourself. Tell them your mother 
is an invalid, that the doctors forbid noise. Please 


Flower and Thorn 


7 


go, David; perhaps you are shy, but that is foolish, 
and you must get over it.” 

David was too little self-conscious to be over- 
whelmed by shyness; moreover, ever since his legs 
could carry him, he had been constantly employed 
in his mother’s service, and many a tough job 
against the little lad’s grain had he accomplished. 
A selfish mother is so excellent and wholesome a 
discipline, turning out such creditable offspring, 
that ’tis a pity there are not more of them. David 
did not hesitate to obey Mrs. Guthrie, though he 
did not like the business. 

He ran upstairs and rapped at the offending 
lodger’s door. The tumult hushed at once. A dog 
growled. A child’s voice cried, “Mademoiselle, 
here is tea.” 

Simultaneously with the words the door was 
opened from the inside, and a little girl and a great 
black dog bounced out against the incomer. 

An elderly lady with untidy hair sat at a table by 
the window, reading. Her head was supported by 
her hands; against the lobe of either ear she had 
pressed an index finger. The little girl ran over to 
her, touching her hand. 

“Here’s that boy,” she cried. “Mademoiselle, he 
comes up from downstairs to see us.” 


8 


Flower and Thorn 


“Entrez,” said mademoiselle, turning her book 
upside down, with a bow of abstracted politeness; 
“we are very happy to see the young gentle- 
man.” 

“I came with a message,” said David. He was 
an orderly youth; his mother was, and prided her- 
self upon being, scrupulously, primly neat; the dis- 
orderly aspect of this room was terrible indeed. 
“My mother is an invalid, and to-day she has a 
headache. We have rooms below yours. I came 
up to ask whether you would mind being quiet; the 
doctors say noise is bad for my mother’s nerves, 
and we hear all the movement up here quite 
plainly.” 

Mademoiselle listened, then she looked about 
her. Losing her air of abstraction, she brought 
elbows, eyebrows, shoulders and voice to bear upon 
the situation. 

“Valerie is indefensible, incorrigible, irreclaim- 
able,” she cried, pointing at her pupil. “I beg a 
thousand pardons, monsieur, of your afflicted 
mama. I had but closed the ear for a short space. 
I was most deeply engaged in my study of the liter- 
ature; I heard nothing.” By a deft movement she 
covered the title-page of her very French, French 
novel with her work-bag. “In the future all pre- 


Flower and Thorn 


9 


cautions for peace I will myself undertake, and 
your mama shall not again be disquieted.” 

Suddenly her parchment-like skin, which had 
lain in lines of studied amiability, broke into wrin- 
kles and puckers of fierce displeasure, as she turned 
upon the little girl, who stood silent and demure, 
listening. 

“Valerie, what desolation is this that you have 
brought into this apartment?” 

“It’s so dull when it rains,” said the child, ad- 
dressing David. “Kaiser and I were only steeple- 
chasing; he can jump over the card-table, but I can 
only vault.” 

“But steeplechasing is not for girls, or the house. 
It is pounds and pounds your mama will have to 
pay for the destruction of these articles. Here is 
a table-leg shaken, and here is wood cracked. Per- 
haps this very amiable young gentleman will help 
me to replace these many things you have disor- 
dered. I have no strength of wrist; the dust lies 
everywhere an inch thick. It is a sin of you, Va- 
lerie; such tricks of monkeys are incomprehensible. 
You are, of all my pupils ever I had, the most 
savage.” 

Valerie laughed, she never took her eyes off 
David. 


lO 


Flower and Thorn 


“There was nothing to do; it rained, it was dull. 
Kaiser liked romping, and I liked it also. I had 
no book, and you, mademoiselle, you were read- 
ing.” 

The upstairs lodgers talked fast and with ges- 
ticulation. David helped to set things to rights, 
mademoiselle’s French touch soon tweaked the 
chaos around into order. Valerie stood watching, 
she did nothing; Kaiser had flopped down at her 
feet and fallen asleep. 

For the past few days David had interested 
himself in the upstairs lodgers. The child was 
pretty, unusually pretty. He had never seen such 
soft brown eyes as hers, such burnished hair, such 
a laughing mouth about which its baby arch still 
lingered. Her bright hair contrasted strangely 
with her great dark eyes. It was conspicuous hair; 
in fact, to be candid, it was not altogether natural; 
its pristine fairness had been artificially preserved 
by the forethought of her mother, who understood 
such arts in all perfection. 

David had watched Valerie at play on the sands, 
Kaiser and she indulging unchecked in their love 
of water, whilst the elder mademoiselle was en- 
gaged in her study of literature. He had watched 
with an indulgent smile the inconsequent gambols. 


Flower and Thorn 


I 


the inexhaustible spirits and gaiety of those irre- 
sponsible friends, Kaiser and Valerie. 

The room was in order now, David had delivered 
his message. He felt that he had no excuse to 
stay, though he wanted to further his acquain- 
tance both with the dog and child. The little girl 
was of his mind. 

“Don’t go,” she said, when he was about to leave 
her. “Please stay. Please stay and talk to me.” 
She slid a hot little hand into his. “I have no one 
here to play with me. At home I have lots of 
friends.” Then she looked up at him, her eyes 
laughing. She knew he would laugh, too, at her 
forthcoming remark; people always laughed at the 
sentiment. “But I like boys best,” she said. David 
did not smile, he liked boys best himself, and was 
not surprised at her taste, but he looked at made- 
moiselle. He was a respecter of persons. Author- 
ity, though it was French, impressed him. 

“Might I stay?” 

Mademoiselle also liked boys best. 

“But certainly, you may stay, monsfeur,” said 
she graciously, “if your afflicted mama permits it. 
Valerie is used to companions, she is triste without 
the young. There is no world here. But for Kaiser 
she would pine. We lead a gay life always, but not 
here.” 


12 


Flower and Thorn 


With the gracious ease of a society damsel, the 
triste Valerie took David at once into her confi- 
dence. 

“Thank you. I am so glad you will stay. I am 
friends with lots of boys, some of them quite as big 
as you are. I miss mummy, she takes me every- 
where, but now she has gone away. She has gone 
to Germany to get thin, and my new dad has gone 
with her. He is not quite so kind as he used to be. 
I don’t care for him very much, no more, I think, 
does mother. Our clothes cost a lot of money, you 
see, and he scolds sometimes.” Valerie held out a 
gossamer skirt which was sadly torn, fingering the 
rent pensively. “Kaiser did that. He’s pretty 
rough. You see, he’s puppyish, and gets wild.” 
She stopped to tenderly pat the offender’s beautiful 
coat. “We have only had him a few months. He 
is a lovely dog. He has such a lot of fathers and 
grandfathers. One of the officers gave him to me. 
I do love him so, and he loves me.” 

Kaiser opened his sagacious eyes, and thumped 
upon the floor with his tail, 

“How well he swims,” said David. “I have often 
watched him.” 

“And I’ve seen you, and I wanted to play with 
you before, but mademoiselle said your mummy 


Flower and Thorn 


3 


looked particular, and would not let me speak to 
her, or to you. Will you play with me to-mor- 
row?” 

“When I have done my work.” 

“Work!” her mouth fell. “I hate work; it 
always gets in the way everywhere.” 

When Jane, David’s cousin, came back from the 
town, she was surprised to find Mrs. Guthrie alone. 

“Where is David?” 

“David took a message from me to those people 
upstairs. He has not come back. Please put those 
things down, Jane, and get off your wet clothes. 
You are splashed to the waist.” 

Jane Blunt was the daughter of Mrs. Guthrie’s 
dead sister. She had been left without kith or kin, 
mother or money, at an age when she wanted care 
most, and Mrs. Guthrie had charitably received her 
into her household. At seventeen she was repaying 
her aunt’s charity by definite domestic toil, and 
had become an inseparable part of that lady’s suf- 
ferings. She was a wholesome-minded, whole- 
some-looking girl, never meeting the daily burdens 
of an unattractive life half way, but bravely set 
“upon wresting happiness from fate’s hard hands,” 
with a thickish skin and an unimpaired digestion 
to aid and abet her undertaking. 


14 


Flower and Thorn 


It was not her way to say more, or to feel more 
than she could help. She put down the bromidia 
and latest novel of Marie Corelli’s beside her aunt, 
without reflecting that those commodities might 
have been dispensed with in this deplorable 
weather, and she sloshed off upstairs, dripping as 
she went. 

The door of the first-floor sitting-room was wide 
open. David was there, apparently quite at home, 
for he knelt on the floor holding a retriever’s collar, 
whilst a fairy-like little maiden tried to balance a 
biscuit on the nose of the dog. 

When Valerie laughed David laughed, and in- 
quisitive Jane from the threshold laughed too. The 
laugh of the latter was audible; she intended it to 
be heard, and it was heard. Mademoiselle looked 
up from her “literature” staring. The boy was all 
very well, but who wanted this blunt demoiselle 
with her downright air, audaciously, ostentatiously 
English? Mademoiselle fidgetted; her hero, her 
heroine were interesting her immensely, but polite- 
ness must be maintained. 

“You are required, monsieur. This young lady 
fetches you.” 

David did not relish “fetching” any more than 
a gentleman of twice his years would have done. 


Flower and Thorn 


15 


He liked his cousin Jane; they were good friends, 
but just now he did not want her, and he frowned. 

Jane advanced to the very threshold and stood 
there, damp, smiling, and good-humoured. A 
grey-eyed, rosy-cheeked, wide-mouthed girl, ready 
to meet any friendship or kindness three-quarters 
of the way, but blind to frowns and small feelings. 
Mightily practical was Jane for her seventeen 
years. 

“I don’t want David,” said she genially. “I only 
looked in as I passed by. I am wet through.” 

Valerie left the dog and David to examine- the 
truth of this statement. 

“You are wet. I wish mademoiselle would let 
me out. I love rain. I like a great spattering on 
my face.” 

“You are talking nonsense, aren’t you?” 

“Won’t you come in too? And then David can 
stay.” 

“I must go on and change my things.” 

“Will you come in by-and-bye? There will be 
three of us then; we could play ‘Old Maid.’ That 
is my favourite game of cards.” 

“Valerie, you are most presumptuous. You have 
always the idea that all the whole earth should play 
with you. Here comes your tea. Do not presume 


1 6 Flower and Thorn 

to trespass more upon the time of this young mon- 
sieur. He is amiable, we know, but you are but a 
small child, and what is a game to you is ennui to 
him. Adieu, monsieur, and you, mademoiselle, if 
you do value health, quickly get into the dry 
clothes. At the seaside one is always cold catch- 
ing.” 

Eyebrows, elbows, and shoulders, as well as 
words were brought to bear upon mademoiselle’s 
companions. David went, and so did Jane, whilst 
Valerie bemoaned herself using some terms of im- 
politeness to her commander-in-chief. 

“You are indulged beyond all things, Valerie. 
Life was not made for you, nor are your fellow- 
men; in time you will learn so for yourself. At 
present there is but one thing in all the world, and 
the one thing is your desire. This time you will 
not get it. There is no one with whom to play 
that pitiable nonsense of cards, ‘Old Maid.’ ” 

Before an hour had passed, before the lengthy 
ceremonial of Guthrie tea was quite over, a light rap 
sounded on the panels of the Guthrie sitting-room, 
and Valerie glided like a sprite into the room. By 
a happy instinct she addressed herself to the mis- 
tress of the chamber, her voice and manner soft- 
ened into an ingratiating and plaintive softness. 


Flower and Thorn 


11 

“I have come,” said she, “to see if I may play 
here? It is a quiet game, but I cannot play it 
alone.” She held out her hands. Between her 
little palms was a pack of cards; she shook back 
the clouds of burnished hair from her face, and 
looked beseechingly at Jane. “Can you play ‘Old 
Maid?’ It is easy to learn; it is so interesting, and 
I would teach you.” 

Mrs. Guthrie smiled, and then the thing was 
done. Everyone wanted something to do, and 
even that “pitiable nonsense of cards, ‘Old Maid,’ ” 
as a way of filling time, was not to be despised. 

“Poor child, it is dull for her. Aunt Carrie. Shall 
we play?” 

Valerie went close to the couch and addressed 
its occupant. Her ways were irresistible. “Will it 
tire you? The table could be put quite close.” 

She used no wiles upon David, she was sure of 
him; he was a friend. 

And it came to pass that when mademoiselle had 
finished her novel, and had awakened to the fact 
that Valerie had disappeared, the little lady had 
played cards until she had tired of “Old Maid,” and 
was at the dreaded hour of bed-time sitting with 
the downstair lodgers, entertaining them with her 
glib tongue, telling them her history and the his- 


i8 


Flower and Thorn 


tory of many friends at Leigh, and showing vast 
interest in everything pertaining to her new com- 
rades. 

Even Mrs. Guthrie forgot her headache, and al- 
lowed herself to be entertained by the quaint child, 
with her innocent acuteness, her babyish worldli- 
ness, her gracious prattle, and perhaps above all 
by the attraction of her expressive little face. The 
wistful beauty of the dark eyes, the laughing lips, 
the conspicuous hair, were fair to see. And then 
Mrs. Guthrie liked all things and all people who 
were new. Everything fresh was good and to be 
believed in, until the inevitable time came when its 
mere humanity became apparent. 

When the conclave was finally broken up by a 
torrent of ejaculation and apology from mademoi- 
selle, and Valerie was marched, still smiling and 
unrepentant, off to bed, the Guthries sighed. The 
womenkind discussed their uninvited guest when 
the door had closed upon her, dissecting her ways 
and looks and words, as the sex will. David, man- 
like, listened, but held his tongue. 

“Will you play with me to-morrow?” the little 
intruder had asked him as she left. 

And he had answered, civilly and readily, that he 
should be at her service. 


CHAPTER II. 


“All my life long 

I most have prized the man who knew himself 
And knew the ways before him, rough or smooth, 

And from them chose, not blindly brave. 

But with considerate courage, and calm will, 

And having chosen with a steadfast mind 
Pursued his purposes.” 

A FORTNIGHT had passed: the day preceding the 
Guthries’ departure from Felixstowe had arrived. 
The holidays were nearly over. 

In the eye of the noon-day sun, stretched at full 
length on the warm sand, lay studious David, with 
a book in his hand. 

The busy sea heaving to the horizon, and break- 
ing in hurried uneven waves upon the slanting 
shore, did not disturb him. He did not lift his eyes 
to see the white-sailed boats that went scudding 
briskly by in the breeze. Hard by him low rocks, 
overgrown by fragrant seaweed, newly laid bare by 
the receding tide, on which bare-legged children 
roamed at will, did not attract him over-much. In 
the briny, redolent, fresh, clear, invigorating air he 
lay, and worked his best. 


20 


Flower and Thorn 


“David,” said a dear little voice, which though 
subdued was persistent, “you don’t allow me here. 
I didn’t mean to come, but I have come. I know 
you are working” — her pursed-up lips were close 
to his ear — “but I want you, dreadfully, I want 
you.” 

Ever since their introduction, for two frolicking 
weeks, David had been this small speaker’s serv- 
itor. She had encroached upon his good nature, 
and he had made no attempt to evade her en- 
croachments. 

But though in some ways he had been slavish, he 
had maintained his superiority up to a point, inas- 
much as during his two hours’ daily work Valerie 
had found that she and her requirements must go 
to the wall. She had learned with tears that this 
decree of the boy’s was absolute. The child was 
all very well, but soldiering was paramount. Books, 
here, led to battle, through pen to sword. David 
could be firm. 

“Let me say it,” in an earnest whisper; “just one 
word.” 

David put a finger upon a spot on the open page 
before him, and looked up, a fog of mental obscur- 
ity between him and the longing face. 

“All right, one word. Fire away.” 


Flower and Thorn 


21 


“A circus.” 

“I don’t understand. What circus?” 

“The procession goes through the town at one. 
It is nearly one now. I want to see it.” 

“Well?” 

“Mademoiselle won’t come, she’s reading. She 
says she is tired. Will you” — the voice broke with 
a fervency of desire — “take me, David?” 

David was dreamy, his brain woolly. Personally 
he would have liked to cease his labour ; though the 
spirit was willing the flesh was weak. So he had 
himself to discipline, and he answered gruffly : 

“Rubbish, Valerie. It will be a wretched show, 
not worth seeing. Lots of riff-raff. I must do my 
work. You go,” more gently, “you go and dig.” 

Close by Mrs. Guthrie lay on her couch, half 
asleep. Beside her sat her niece Jane, stitching in 
the shade of the Guthries’ tent. Close to the sea 
mademoiselle and her book were ensconced; to her 
right and left frisked a flock of happy children. 

That very afternoon Valerie’s mother was to ar- 
rive at Felixstowe, when mademoiselle’s study of 
"^litterature^* would be interrupted. Mademoiselle 
made her hay whilst the sun shone, her eyes and 
thoughts safely glued to her book. 

Standing with Kaiser’s black nose in her palm. 


22 


Flower and Thorn 


the little maiden, Valerie Talbot, halted and looked 
at David, looked at hard-hearted, kind-faced 
David. Her intuition was precocious, feminine; 
she understood he was not the sort of boy who 
changes his mind. 

At last she turned away from him with a sigh; 
he was no good at all. She shook some sand off 
her serge skirt, settled her shady hat on her con- 
spicuous hair, and, with Kaiser at her heels, she 
turned her back on the sea-shore. Slipping behind 
the Guthries’ tent, she mounted the few steps lead- 
ing to the road; gliding rapidly away over the 
sandy track that led along the beach, she made her 
way up the hill, past the big hotel, to the heart of 
the town. 

The noon-day was red-hot. Valerie’s short legs 
had many a step to make before she reached the 
corner of the street, whence she intended to see 
the sight that drew her thither; but she was an 
excitable child, feeling neither heat nor weariness 
so long as she was amused. 

The circus procession had attracted a great 
crowd of sightseers. Valerie only laughed at the 
jostling she received, and held her place steadily in 
the front rank of the people, whilst she strained her 
eyes to admire the lumbering by of gaudy vehicles. 


Flower and Thorn 


23 


the ambling of curbed steeds, the glitter of tinsel, 
the attraction of paint and fluttering garments. 
Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she absorbed all the 
wonders of the pageant. 

The fun, such as it was, was over all too soon. 
The circus procession had passed. The crowd 
melted away, leaving Valerie free on the narrow 
pavement to come or go at her liking. 

Just then a clock overhead struck the hour of 
two, startling the truant in earnest. The show had 
gone, it was over. Valerie had had her way. The 
piper must be paid, mademoiselle must be faced. 
Making every allowance for lodging-house un- 
punctuality, the school-room dinner would be 
stone cold by this time. Valerie knew it. 

“Kaiser ! Kaiser !” 

The child till this moment had forgotten Kaiser. 
Now he was out of sight. 

“Kaiser! Kaiser!” 

She shouted his name till she was hoarse, but 
Kaiser did not come. He had disappeared. A 
terrier looked curiously at her in passing, an 
unpleasant-looking man stared, but Kaiser had 
gone. 

The streets were no longer full; Valerie could see 
far and near. In the distance a concourse of people 


24 


Flower and Thorn 


marked the route of the departing procession. In 
that direction she fixed her eyes. Amongst legs and 
petticoats she fancied that she espied a busy black 
object, which might prove to be the hind-quarters 
of the lost dog. 

“Kaiser! Kaiser!” Valerie loved Kaiser better 
than she loved anything in the world. 

“Have you lost your dog, little missy?” 

The speaker had an odd voice, and a face from 
which Valerie hastily averted her gaze; it was un- 
prepossessing in the child’s fastidious eyes. But in 
her present helpless condition she was even more 
ready than usual to make a friend. 

“Yes,” she answered eagerly, “I have lost my 
dog. I can’t go back without him. I think I see 
him following the show.” 

“What sort of a dog, little lady?” 

“A retriever, wavy-coated. He’s called Kaiser. 
He never follows very well. He is young. Look 
there, just at the corner. I think,” nodding her 
head quickly, “I see him there.” 

A lady passing looked hard first at the speaker, 
and then at the man. 

“I’d run after him, missy, and call to him,” said 
the nasty-looking sympathiser, hastily. “I expect 
it’s him.” 


Flower and Thorn 


25 


Valerie was glad to follow any advice. She hur- 
ried off in the direction the speaker indicated, and 
he, quickening his slouching paces, followed her. 

♦ * * * * * 
No frivolity was introduced into the sober 
meals of the Guthries. Mrs. Guthrie ate to live, 
she nibbled wholesome food with a display of her 
lack of appetite. The case was different with her 
son and Jane. Under protest, as it were, they satis- 
fied vast sea-side capacities for stoking steadily; 
they were aware of offending fastidious taste, but 
preferred offence to hunger. 

Luncheon that day was silent and earnest as 
usual, the cheese and biscuit superfluities of the 
meal were drawing the ceremony to a close, when 
the Guthries were unexpectedly disturbed by the 
advent of mademoiselle. Poor mademoiselle, who 
burst into the room in an agitation which was in- 
fectious from its very sincerity. 

“Mille pardons. This intrusion is unwarrantable, 
but I am distracted. Davide,” with a motion to- 
wards “Davide’s” mother, ‘T trusted, might per- 
haps help me in my trouble.” She laid her expres- 
sive nervous hand upon the boy’s arm. “I can find 
Valerie nowhere. I have sought her far and near. 


26 


Flower and Thorn 


She is nowhere, up or down, in or out; she is gone 
—lost.” 

“Valerie lost?” cried Mrs. Guthrie, her attention 
fully arrested. “Dear me, how unfortunate.” 

“Alas, yes. Her mama arrives at three. How 
can I break to her that her child is gone? She will 
die with horror. I, too, am ready to die. Lost! 
A child lost in your land is terrible, terrific. She is 
found dead. She is cut to pieces; she is thrown 
down in parcels over hedges by the highways. She 
is battered, drowned, decimated, murdered. Picture 
to yourself my horror I” 

Breaking off, the speaker released David’s arm, 
and, catching her temples in her hands, ran with a 
cry to the window, gazing with starting eyes upon 
the expanse of sea. 

It was all very well to be bom Britons, but the 
Guthrie family had their own species of emotions. 
Mademoiselle would have disquieted a sphinx. 
They all three got up. As they did so a shrill shriek 
thrilled their nerves. Mademoiselle was pointing 
with a tragic gesture to the shore. 

“Come, Davide, see. The waves reveal it. She 
floats. That dark object by the rocks. Alas, alas !” 

All three Guthries were behind mademoiselle. 
Jane was spokeswoman. 


Flower and Thorn 


27 


“Pouf,” she said, “that’s not Valerie. It is the 
post of a breakwater. Can’t you see that?” 

Mademoiselle left off pointing, and wrung her 
hands. 

“Where is Kaiser?” asked David. He spoke very 
quietly. 

“Alas, he too has gone.” 

“It is only two o’clock, mademoiselle. This 
morning Valerie wanted me to take her to the 
town to see the circus procession. I refused. She 
wanted to go badly. Of course she has gone, and 
she has taken Kaiser. They will both turn up in a 
few minutes. There is no reason to be frightened.” 

French reaction is acute. The well-developed 
lines of social politeness returned to mademoi- 
selle’s face, for the boy spoke with a reassuring 
conviction. 

“You are wise, Davide. In my fever I had for- 
gotten the cirque. Valerie is of all mortals the 
most wilful. I go to meet her. This time she shall 
not escape punishment.” 

With elbows, shoulders, hands, and eyebrows at 
work, mademoiselle left the room, as precipitately 
as she had entered. A minute later she tore down 
the hilly garden path, and scurried off at an amble 
through the wooden gate towards the town. 


28 


Flower and Thorn 


Jane laughed. 

“No lunch, and no litterature/' commented she. 
“Poor little Valerie.” 

“She is a sadly spoilt child, I fear,” sighed Mrs. 
Guthrie, limping painfully back to her seat. 

“The wrong sort of spoiling, too,” Jane went on, 
taking a biscuit; “spoilt to save trouble, not be- 
cause she is over-loved.” 

“Jane, you are always ready to jump on people.” 

“Well, David, mademoiselle isn’t the sort of per- 
son I should care to leave in charge of my child.” 

David still stood at the window. 

“What a fuss,” pursued his cousin, with a little 
laugh at the remembrance of mademoiselle’s ex- 
citement. “What a commotion about nothing.” 

“It is not nothing.” David frowned. “Girls 
don’t understand. If Valerie doesn’t soon get back 
mademoiselle has every right to be frightened.” 
He spoke as a lord of the creation; his faith in the 
superiority of his sex was enormous. “Mother, 
may I go? I can get up to the town on my bicycle, 
and save time. I will ride after her.” 

He was gone. The two womenkind looked at 
his unfinished biscuit, and Mrs. Guthrie sighed 
again. 

“Oh, Jane, that boy is extraordinarily like his 


Flower and Thorn 


29 


father. He lays down the law. He goes his own 
way; he has no regard for other people’s judgment 
or opinion; he is almost offensively independent 
and self-reliant. He has a strong, but, I fear, not a 
loveable character.” 

Jane looked quickly at the speaker’s face. Its 
discontent matched the plaintive voice, but she did 
not speak. 

“I thought you were going to blackberry at 
Bordsey, dear. It is selfish to desert you.” 

“He is better employed,” said Jane stoutly. “No 
doubt he would rather blackberry than play hide 
and seek.” 

“Your manner is so blunt, Jane, as to sometimes 
border on roughness. Don’t waste this last day of 
sea air; take your sewing to the sands. I shall 
rest a little; my head buzzes after that scene with 
the Frenchwoman. I must shut my eyes and think 
of nothing, or I shall be hardly fit for my journey 
to-morrow.” 

Jane’s conscience was not abnormally developed. 
Her obedience was sometimes for peace, not prin- 
ciple. Now she took her sewing in her hand, and 
went out. Once out of sight she put her work- 
basket down, and walked empty-handed out up'on 
the road. Her rosy face was sober, her broad, 


30 


Flower and Thorn 


good-humoured lips set steadily, her ordinary blue 
eyes inordinately grave, even gloomy. The fate of 
lost children was unsavoury. It was terrible to 
think of Valerie dead, cut into dice and scattered 
behind the high hedges of Suffolk. To avert such 
a fate Jane was ready for action. In the blazing 
sun she, too, hurried after the searchers towards the 
town. At the foot of the hill, by the donkey stand, 
she encountered mademoiselle, in a deplorable 
condition of mental and physical heat. This poor 
lady had spent the last quarter of an hour in run- 
ning to and fro over a thousand yards of sandy 
track, undecided whether to advance in Valerie’s 
interest or to retreat in the awful necessity of meet- 
ing Valerie’s mother. 

“Ah, Mees Jane Blunt, to see you is to greet an 
angel. Madame Beauchamp will be here before it 
is possible for me to return from the town. Will 
you be so amiable as to inform her of my absence? 
It would be reasonable to hide the cause of our 
fear, no doubt, until I come back with news of the 
unfortunate Valerie.” 

Jane’s nerves and Jane’s common sense out- 
matched the speaker’s. Jane’s life did not encour- 
age leadership, but here she could exercise au- 
thority. 


Flower and Thorn 31 

“It would be better to go and meet Mrs. Beau- 
champ yourself,” with the positiveness of seven- 
teen. “I should not know what to say. Mean- 
while David and I can look for Valerie. I am on 
my way to give information to the police. That is 
what we did when Aunt Carrie lost a dog. She got 
him back. It would be best for you to go straight 
home and meet Valerie’s mother.” 

The deliberate conviction of Jane’s voice Im- 
pressed mademoiselle. She went home. 

The bright September day rushed by, the hours 
galloped past. Soon, too soon, the creeping twi- 
light settled on the land, and across the uneasy sea, 
the light of the Cork ship began to twinkle. 

Night was coming, and Valerie had not been 
found. The anxious hours of day were to give 
way to the sevenfold more acutely anxious hours 
of darkness. The police were busy. David was out 
on his bicycle. Mrs. Guthrie sat watching from 
her window. Jane had been backwards and for- 
wards to the town a score of times. 

Valerie’s smart mother, with a queer faded look 
on her handsome face, was driving hither and 
thither with mademoiselle. Like the fabled man 
and his ass, she lent her ears to all advice, and gal- 


32 


Flower and Thorn 


loped in every direction suggested to her, so far all 
to no purpose. 

Valerie was lost. 

A child answering to David’s description had 
been seen in the town talking to a tramp. A lady 
had seen her. 

A thin, pale-faced child, with dark eyes and con- 
spicuous hair, dressed in blue serge, with a broad- 
leafed white hat, had been seen later in a field be- 
yond the town by the station, where the circus was 
bivouacked. Again this self-same child had been 
noticed by a countryman, who had passed her in a 
cart by the lane off the road leading to Bordsey. 
David ran this rustic informer down himself, and 
questioned him. 

“There was a black sportin’ dog in the lane too, 
a bit further on. The little lady was not far off the 
‘Half-way House.’ She was loitering there. Aye, 
she was alone. He took notice of her because of 
her hair, which was the colour of copper and brass 
a’most. It was a lonely part, as perhaps the young 
gentleman knew, but blackberrying folk were 
about this month. If he’d thought about it at all, 
he’d made sure the little lady was out a-blackberry- 
ing.” 


Flower and Thorn 


33 


“What is the shortest way to ‘Half-way 
House?’ ” 

“Right along the road to the Mill, and take the 
turn to the right. You can’t miss it.” 

David was on his bicycle and out of sight, his 
face betraying how much his heart was in this 
weary day’s work, before the man had done speak- 
ing. Meanwhile Jane Blunt was defying all prece- 
dent, and wandering in the dark lane behind Har- 
land House alone. She had risked peace by break- 
ing from all authority, by refusing to pack, or to 
sew, or to talk, or to listen, showing by this lapse 
of discipline less sense of practical personal ad- 
vantageousness than was her wont. 

Of course she did not expect to find Valerie in 
the lane. She could do no one any good by staying 
in the road, but there, nevertheless, she elected to 
stay. 

Mademoiselle’s imagination, fed on the literature 
of her native land, was not reassuring. Both she 
and Valerie’s poor mother stood hand in hand in 
the porch, mingling their tears and fears in ungov- 
ernable paroxysms of emotion. 

Their way of meeting trouble was not Jane’s; 
hers was a reserved and consequently irritable 
anxiety, and she had slipped away from this poor 


34 


Flower and Thorn 


pair of women, and wandered alone far up into the 
lane. 

Jane’s life was not exhilarating. Never before 
that night had she known acute joy, never before 
had she known the leap of pulse and throb of heart 
that comes with a sudden relief from fear — a sharp, 
unlooked-for release from apprehension. 

Here in this dark lane she was to have a new ex- 
perience. Towards her through the dusk there rat- 
tled wheels; the hoofs of a trotting pony scattered 
the stones. She backed into the hedge out of dan- 
ger. 

“Take care,” she cried; “you’ll run me down. 
Take care.” 

The pony was pulled up on his haunches, the 
cart stopped, and David’s voice cried exultantly ; 

“I’ve got her. She’s here. It is all right. 
Here’s Valerie.” 

Jane’s throat closed, her lips refused to obey her; 
something swelled in her side to pain. Mademoi- 
selle’s emotion was infectious. 

“All right,” cried David again, and the ring of 
his sturdy voice put an end to Jane’s emotion. 

“Naughty little girl,” she cried, and no one saw 
Jane’s wet eyes in the dark. “She has given every 
one a fright which they will never forget.” 


Flower and Thorn 


35 


Tears, kisses, scoldings, money and words were 
lavished by Valerie’s mother far and near that 
night. Long after Valerie herself was fast asleep 
in her little bed, David sat with Valerie’s pretty 
mother listening graciously enough to many warm 
expressions of gratitude. Like her daughter, Mrs. 
Beauchamp “liked boys best,” and had a caress- 
ing manner for them which David thought pleas- 
ant. 

Jane found herself reaping the harvest she had 
sown in company with trunks, portmanteaux, and 
a displeased aunt. She felt dull, flabby and inert 
after the tension of the day. 

The story of the lost child gave food for reflec- 
tion in this case. 

Valerie told it quite simply; she had been in such 
distress over the loss of Kaiser that she had jumped 
at the strange man’s offer to find him. He had 
told her it would cost money. She had given him 
all she had, a sixpence, and, at his suggestion, her 
bangle. He had helped her to search the circus 
field and the outlying shows, but they had not 
found Kaiser. 

He had left her to consult some friends in the 
“Red Lion,” and later he told her that Kaiser had 


3^ 


Flower and Thorn 


followed a cart to Bordsey, and had been detained 
on his way thither at a house by the roadside. 

“I was very tired,” Valerie said, “but I went after 
Kaiser. He said we should find Kaiser. It was a 
long way, and very hot — the man was thirsty, and 
he went into places a good deal to drink. We 
went right out in the country, and he told me to 
sit down and wait, and I did, and he went into the 
inn. He was gone a very long while. I suppose I 
was very tired, for I went to sleep, and David woke 
me. His bicycle lamp looked like a star. I am 
glad he found me and Kaiser too, and got the cart. 
I don’t believe I could have walked another yard. 
Is Kaiser tired?” 

“He is stiff,” said David shortly. “I came across 
him just before I found you. He was playing with 
a puppy in the lane.” 

The police found the tramp asleep and very 
drunk in the “Half-way House.” After a night in 
the cells he was dismissed with a caution. 

And cautions were the form of punishment 
meted out lavishly to Valerie. “If Davide,” said 
mademoiselle to the delinquent, “had not been of 
all boys the most constant and clever, you, Va- 
lerie, might lie dead and cold on the country side.” 

“Yes,” said Valerie’s mother, “you and I, Val^ 


Flower and Thorn 


37 


can never be grateful enough to David. Kiss him, 
dear, and thank him again. He is going away.” 

Valerie did as she was told. 

“Don’t go altogether,” said she. “Come soon 
and see us at Leigh.” 

“Yes,” said David, “I shall be sure to see you 
again. Your mother has asked me, Valerie.” 


CHAPTER III. 


“Many suns arise and set 
Many a chance the years beget.” 

There was a certain air of luxury about the 
room. Upon the lace and fine linen of the dress- 
ing-table lay costly knick-knacks that gleamed in 
the blaze of candle-light — silver, ebony, ivory. An 
embroidered quilt covered the bed; down cushions 
lay on the padded springs of the sofa. By the fire- 
side stood an armchair, deep, wide and inviting. 
Bright curtains were drawn across the window, the 
door was sheltered by a portiere. The walls must 
have been four terrors to a conscientious house- 
maid, so covered were they with pictures, photo- 
graphs, and pretty rubbish valued only by its pos- 
sessor. 

The owner of this cosy room stood before a 
cheval glass of oval form, looking with a gentle 
criticism upon her fair reflection. She was not 
elated by her beauty, she stood there as a critic. 
Good-looking? Of course she was good-looking, 
but was she good-looking enough? To do what 
was expected of her was not the simple thing it 


Flower and Thorn 


39 


seemed. Great things were expected of her; she 
was burdened with expectations. 

The reflection which this lady criticised was 
beautifully and carefully dressed for an artillery 
ball which was to take place that night. She 
thought just for a displeasing moment of the bill 
as she looked at the white satin dress. Madame 
Malmaison’s studied simplicity was effective, but 
expensive; in fact, the cut of this gown meant more 
than its wearer could in decency afford to pay 
for it. 

The reflection smiled at her double; she was . 
looking her best. Without aggressive vanity, she 
appreciated beauty, she valued it highly. She had 
been the belle of many a ball; such triumphs were 
to be hers again. For four long years her teens 
had been innocent things of the past; she had never 
felt the loss of them. She always danced. Though 
her people did not entertain, had not even an aver- 
age share of money, though her stepfather had no 
shooting, she always danced; she could ignore the 
advantages of money, and shooting, and open 
house. 

She was still much what the Valerie Talbot at 
Felixstowe many a year ago had been. “Brown 
eyes like a stag, hair the colour of brass and cop- 


40 


Flower and Thorn 


per.” She had grown tall, and she was thin — a 
trifle over-thin about the long white throat. A 
string of pearls did not hide, though they might 
modify, this salient defect. Just of late she had 
been worried. 

By training, by necessity, if not wholly by in- 
clination, she was worldly wise, and she had found 
herself embarked upon a somewhat serious cam- 
paign, the end of which it was hard to foresee. 

The great match of the county, an eldest son, 
possessed of good looks, good manners, decent 
brains, had singled out Miss Talbot for his favours; 
he had pursued her not stealthily but openly, defy- 
ing his good people’s disapproval. He had not 
grudged making this young person conspicuous by 
his attentions. Month after month, nay, a year 
had passed, during which he had manifested his 
preference — but the end had not come. 

Would he? Wouldn’t he? What did he mean? 
Why had he not? 

Every woman in the shire with a marriageable 
daughter had eyes — lynx eyes, not over kindly — 
set to watch for Valerie’s fate. 

She knew it, and she did not like it. The affair 
had not been of her seeking, not her fault. If the 
tongues and eyes could but be blindfolded, or de- 


Flower and Thorn 


4^ 


fied, or ignored, life would be pleasanter. Public 
opinion is a bogie to us all. 

Valerie’s girlish pleasure in this ball was out of 
the question. The thing had become a business, 
an anxiety. She was to be watched, wondered 
about. How odious it was. A knock sounded at 
the door, and a maid brought in a square deal box, 
the species of which Valerie recognised with a 
smile, and handed it to Miss Talbot. 

It was not, by any means, the first bouquet 
which had been sent to Valerie, but it was the first 
sent to her by this special man, by this desirable 
parti. 

“I have undone the lid, miss; the flowers smell 
like ’eaven.” 

When the maid had gone, Valerie stood looking 
down upon the flowers in her hand, and her face 
changed. She was always pale, but she grew not- 
ably paler. Her eyes darkened, her mouth sobered 
— the orchids and the foliage trembled as she held 
them. 

For a moment she had felt a glow of pleasure, 
not wholly gratitude, at the sight of the bouquet; 
but she did not care for orchids — she had a dislike, a 
proclaimed dislike to orchids. It was odd that the 
donor should not know her tastes. As a sign of 


42 


Flower and Thorn 


the times this bouquet was significant, it meant 
much. Was it possible it meant over-much? It 
was the chase, not the fox, that she loved. 

She was afraid to think; an unaccountable spasm 
of apprehension seized her. She would be dis- 
graced in the eyes of her world should she lose 
him, and yet she realised that she was in no hurry 
for the end. 

She was afraid of matrimony. No one had 
blindfolded her so that she was eager to explore 
that fateful land of hills and vales, of mountains, 
chasms and abysses. 

Her feelings were not lightly moved, she was not 
impressionable. She had so often been told that 
she was heartless that she had begun to believe that 
of which she had been assured. 

She remembered her mother’s second marriage; 
it had begun auspiciously, but it was not a success. 
She lived in daily contact with its friction — had 
shared in a childish way in its disillusions. 

This bouquet, which some of the womenkind 
would envy her, had for the moment given Valerie 
the blues. She ought to be ashamed of flying in 
the face of a propitious fate. 

Here was she shivering at the fear of a husband 
who was even a greater laggard in matrimonial 


Flower and Thorn 


43 


love than are most of those gentlemen who know 
their own value. He knew his, why not? For she 
knew it too. No doubt this bouquet was not the 
first token of the sort which he had sent, although 
it happened to be the first that he had sent to her. 
With a smile at her own expense, she laid her 
flowers down, whilst she donned the beautiful white 
cloak that had been one of her lamentable late ex- 
travagances. 

Fate had provided Valerie with no handmaiden 
to help with any dull routine of toilette. No Cin- 
derella coach came to take this fine lady to her ball, 
but she presently heard the rattle of a cab stop at 
the street door below her window. 

Then she blew out her candles and made her 
dainty way downstairs to a room where a thin, 
faded woman sat close to the fireside. This woman 
was Mrs. Beauchamp, Valerie’s mother. Once 
upon a time, long ago, she too had been a beauty, 
and through all the seams and scars that life had 
left upon her there lurked the shadow of the old 
attraction still. Once a beauty always a beauty, 
only the degree varies with the flight of years. They 
were singularly alike in feature, this well-favoured 
mother and daughter, but the younger woman’s 
stag-like brown eyes were deeper set than her 


44 


Flower and Thorn 


mother’s, her beautiful mouth was wider, and the 
lips firmer and more decided. She was an inch 
taller, and she had a strength in her face which the 
elder lacked. 

Mrs. Beauchamp appreciated Valerie’s external 
advantages; she had reared her to use them for her 
benefit. She herself had reaped no material bene- 
fits from her good looks; please Providence her 
daughter should do better than her mother had 
done. She laid down her novel, and rose to ex- 
amine the incomer, looking Valerie slowly up and 
down, from head to foot, with an anxious eye, 
which brightened, however, when it fell upon the 
bouquet, the conspicuous and magnificent bouquet 
of orchids. 

“Is that from him?” 

“Yes.” 

The triumph of her mother’s little laugh grated 
on her daughter. 

“Valerie, you look your best.” 

“I always like white.” 

“Turn round; your hair isn’t what it was, dear. 
Surely it gets darker.” 

“Does it, mother? It was over-bright. Startling 
hair is not rare now, it is so cheap.” 

“Dear Valerie, be careful to-night, be very care- 


Flower and Thorn 


45 


ful. It is a critical time — you young ones little 
know how critical. You are not in your first youth. 
It will not do to — to throw away a great chance — 
like — this. Once or twice before you have stood 
between yourself and a good match. At Plymouth 
there was Mr. Hayter. You remember how badly 
you behaved. I wish I was strong enough to chap- 
eron you myself, but late hours kill me.” 

“Good-night, mother.” 

“But you promise me, Valerie, to be prudent. 
Don’t let any stray man whom you find pleasant 
dance frequently with you. Other men don’t like 
it. Girls with no money don’t often make such a 
match as this. Think of it, Valerie. Eric has been 
to me again to-day. He wants me to raise more 
money to last till you are married, then we must 
retrench. Heigh-ho ! there is but little more 
money left to raise. I don’t often worry you like 
this, but this bouquet is serious” — the little 
triumphant laugh broke out again. “I pray you to 
take it seriously. Oh, my dear, my dear, if you 
only knew what little difference there is in men, 
you would be better able to understand what store 
we elder women set on money.” 

With all her surface frankness, Valerie was not 
given to wearing any heart she might possess on 


46 


Flower and Thorn 


her sleeve. If she did not like the advice given to 
her, she did not betray herself. 

“Mother, women don’t often marry quite as their 
people would like. Without great luck or great 
beauty. King Cophetuas, in robes and crowns, 
don’t step down to us. I will be good, don’t worry. 

I have this bouquet here in my hand; just for the 
present that is all you must expect of poor Mr. 
Wetheral. Orchids look to me like antediluvian 
gnats and spiders, but I am not educated up to 
them. Good-night, mother.” 

“Good-night. Come in and see me when you 
get back. I shall so want to know how you” — she 
changed the end of her sentence suddenly — “have 
enjoyed yourself, my darling.” 

One ball was very like another, Valerie thought, 
as she, clad in the beautiful soft white coat, and 
carrying her conspicuous bouquet, followed in the 
wake of her chaperon to the cloak-room. That 
night the decorations of the ball-room were un- 
. usually good, and the uniforms of the men glorified 
the entertainment. Apart from these distinctions, 
there was an essential sameness about the pursuit 
of Terpsichore. 

Valerie was thoroughly at home in a ball-room. 
Anxious, nervous, newly-fledged damsels looked 


Flower and Thorn 


47 


with envy upon her. Her knack of arranging her 
programme astonished them. Her partners were 
all men, real men; she escaped boys. She escaped 
all those dull pleasure-seekers, the beardless youths 
who ravished their waltzes from the uninitiated at 
the doorway, and with whom they unwillingly eked 
out their lagging engagements. 

A ball to these fledglings was all heart-burning 
and ecstasy, inlaid with the sickness of great ex- 
citement. Valerie had the savior-faire of that pe- 
culiar specimen of matron who does so much to 
spoil the fresh pleasure of the innocents. 

That night Miss Talbot’s arrival at the ball was 
premeditatedly late. Accepting a proffered arm at 
the exit of the cloak-room, she broke gently 
through a business group of programme-fillers at 
the ball-room entrance, with an empty card dan- 
gling at her fan. 

Men are so like sheep. Just now Valerie was the 
fashion. She knew it, of course, and she gave her- 
self airs. 

Her present partner was one of the givers of the 
ball, quite a person to dance with, and Valerie al- 
ways danced with him if he asked her to do so. 
She enjoyed the waltz with him, and when they 
paused one or two men came up to her to ask for 


48 


Flower and Thorn 


dances. She had been taught from her youth up 
only to see certain people in a ball-room, but she 
did not take readily to the lesson — she always 
wanted to enjoy herself. 

Later on, once or twice, her eyes roved quickly 
through the ball-room. Her eyes were not given 
to roving; habitually she bestowed them and her 
whole attention upon her comrade, whoever he or 
she might be. But now they roved, and the bou- 
quet, which was so heavy as to tire her hand, she 
did not grumble about, nor relinquish. 

It was not Valerie’s way to go back to her chap- 
eron’s wing if she could avoid doing so, but 
presently she retreated deliberately to the dais, and 
stood like a lamb waiting to be chosen. 

Mr. Wetheral had given her the bouquet, but he 
was in no hurry to follow up his lead. He was at 
the other end of the room, talking incessantly to 
his partner, whom Valerie saw was a very pretty 
girl, a stranger, new to his neighbourhood, new to 
Valerie, and withal extremely fair to see. Miss 
Talbot’s head was going up rather high. It was 
hardly fair to keep her waiting here — he never 
minded hurting her pride. He did not care for her. 
Pshaw ! — he did not know what love meant. 


Flower and Thorn 


49 


Neither, fortunately, did she. Though once at 
Plymouth several years ago 

“Will you give me a dance, Valerie?” 

“I was wondering whether you would be here,” 
said she, “at the very moment you spoke. I 
thought it was just possible. I heard you were 
coming to the depot. When did you come?” 

“Only to-day.” 

She was looking pleased, frankly, flatteringly 
pleased. She scanned her card slowly. 

“Will you have a supper dance, David? Will 
the first of the three supper extras do for you?” 

She smiled at him. His straight brave eyes 
smiled back. 

“May I not have all the supper dances? They 
always go together, don’t they, Valerie?” 

She hesitated. Her father had been a soldier. 
She liked soldiers. 

This handsome, manly friend of hers was sol- 
dierly from the top of his dark head to his regula- 
tion boots. 

His face was a strong, clean-cut, dogged face, 
kind and eager now, but a face that could be set 
and hard. His eyes were straight and brave, easy 
to deceive, simple, not suspicious, not given to the 


50 


Flower and Thorn 


ferreting out of treachery; but eyes it would be bet- 
ter not to offend. 

The face of a faithful friend and generous foe, 
faithful in both capacities, but a face with which it 
would be pleasantest to be upon friendly terms. 

These deductions are not Miss Talbot’s. She 
only thought that Captain Guthrie was a desirable 
partner, that her white dress looked well by his 
scarlet coat, and that she would give him the three 
momentous supper dances for the which he had pe- 
titioned. 

Valerie looked at him, handing her programme 
to him with a friendly laugh. Mr. Wetheral was at 
her elbow now. She had been aware of his presence 
some seconds before she, turning, greeted him 
carelessly. He had a princely way of ignoring pro- 
grammes, for he generally got what he wanted 
without prematurely booking his wishes. 

“May I have this dance. Miss Talbot?” 

“I’m so sorry, but I am engaged.” 

“Then what dance may I have?” 

“Captain Guthrie, please give me my card.” 

He handed back card and flowers together, and 
strolled off. Safe set before those three coveted 
waltzes he had inscribed, “D. G.,” “D. G.,” “D. G.” 
His good time was coming. He could afford to 


Flower and Thorn 


51 


wait. He was content. But his content was shaken 
presently. He knew Wetheral; superficially he 
knew all about him. By-and-bye he was to know 
yet more of this man, to be told of all the hopes 
that he had raised, and which it was expected he 
would fulfil that very night. 

Long before the advent of the supper dances, a 
garrulous partner with whom Captain Guthrie was 
dancing the Lancers had let him into the secret. 
Miss Talbot and Mr. Wetheral were dancing vis-a- 
vis to them, and Captain Guthrie was watching 
her with over-expressive eyes. “What a graceful, 
debonnair woman she was — no one in the room 
could compare with her,” he thought, and the 
acute fledgling, his partner, whose father had the 
best shooting in the county, broke into his medita- 
tion with an innocent query. 

“Do you admire Miss Talbot?” 

“Yes,” said he, shortly. Admire her? To Ms 
cost he admired her unreasonably. 

“So do I. But she looks foreign. Her colour- 
ing is odd. Her eyebrows and her eyelashes are so 
much darker than her hair. Hers is a foreign, odd, 
pathetic sort of beauty.” 

“Pathetic?” he repeated. He wanted to go on 
talking of Valerie. He was not going to talk of 


52 


Flower and Thorn 


her to-morrow, he should be busy; to-night he 
could do as he wished. “Pathetic? I don’t think 
she looks at all down on her luck.” 

“Not at this minute,” said the very young girl, 
who had elder sisters and was not so juvenile as her 
years. “But those weird sort of ox-eyes are always 
sad. Look at her eyes. Captain Guthrie. I think 
they are beautiful.” 

He looked and set his lips tight. Coquette. 
Wetheral wanted a bullet through his head to teach 
him manners. Look at all the old cats round the 
room staring at him! Men who really care for a 
woman don’t make her conspicuous. 

Ahem I this was no business of his. Three thou- 
sand pounds in consols and Captain Guthrie’s pay 
would not keep a wife — a Valerie type of wife — 
in decency. He did not mean to drag his wife 
about after him on a baggage wagon. He had 
never asked Valerie to marry him, but he had told 
her the reason why he had not done so. She had 
understood him. She had talked like an angel. 
She was, of course, an angel; that was but one of 
her smallest attractions. His regiment was his 
wife, an exacting wife, but he loved her; he loved 
his work. Since those days, those few mad days 
at Plymouth, he had put Valerie out of his mind. 


Flower and Thorn 


53 


She was in his heart. His heart — like his politics 
— was Conservative — ^he could not get her out 
thence. 

Wetheral was not a bad chap, they said. Perhaps 
he was less of a fool than Captain Guthrie thought 
him. Pshaw, he, David, was no better than a dog 
in the manger, scowling at a man who had got the 
hay for which the scowler had no use at all. 

“Do you know Miss Talbot?” 

“I knew her as a child. I have always known 
her.” 

“What a lovely bouquet. Everyone” — lowering 
her voice — “says they are engaged. But his people 
don’t like it, so it is not given out.” 

“Why shouldn’t his people like it?” 

“She has no money, and is nothing very partic- 
ular, you see. The Wetherals think a lot of them- 
selves. But I don’t believe they are engaged at all. 
She has such a lot of new dresses. If things are 
settled, she wouldn’t get new frocks. They are not 
necessary.” 

“Why not?” — with a rather cantankerous dense- 
ness. 

“She would wait,” demurely, “for her trous- 
seau.” 

The good time for which Captain Guthrie was 


54 


Flower and Thorn 


waiting was losing its allurements somewhat; luck- 
ily for him that it was so, for the good time was des- 
tined not to come at all. 

Great people sup early; they gather their worms 
betimes. Mr. Wetheral and Miss Talbot descended 
with the magnates to the supper-room. Supper 
dances are all very well for inconsequent youth. 
Valerie deliberately wasted two of Captain Guth- 
rie’s waltzes over a quail and a glass of champagne. 
The band sang overhead. She heard, but she did 
not heed it. She had other fish to fry. A slim fish, 
who sat beside her, and at whom she directed her 
dark eyes, and to whom she lent her little ears. Her 
thoughts were not running so smoothly as her for- 
tunes. 

This slim man with a small sleek head, with un- 
usual height, and narrow shoulders, long nose, 
prominent eyes, well-cut mouth, and retreating 
chin, was good-looking enough. What did she 
know of him but the cut of his coat, and the size of 
his nose? He had sent her orchids; he knew as 
little of her tastes as she knew of his. 

An hour of his company at supper was a pre- 
liminary sort of canter. Amongst the various 
matrimonial diversities of life, husband and wife 
must meet at meals. Oh, the many, many meals 


Flower and Thorn 


55 


in one short year. Every day, every week, every 
year, to munch, munch, munch in concert till they 
died. Her thoughts ran on rather wildly, though 
her manners were demure. 

Ridiculous ! A woman got used to it all; she did 
not count out the drawbacks to success. She did 
not rake about to find out what a failure, crying 
aloud for compassion and sympathy, a couple here 
and there might have made of matrimony. 

Valerie was never satisfied. If Mr. Wetheral re- 
treated, she advanced. Should he appear to be se- 
riously advancing, she retreated. She was going 
to make an end that night of such folly. 

This desirable parti was a great talker. His mind 
was a lady-like one, and he liked gossip. He was 
discussing diamonds. He knew a great deal about 
diamonds, and about lace. He knew for a fact that 
Lady Murray’s tiara was paste. He whispered the 
secret to Valerie. She opened her beautiful eyes 
very wide, nodding her conspicuous head. 

“Really? Impossible! How extraordinary! 
How hard to believe !” 

He had little stories to tell her to the detraction 
of most people; they were having a sort of feminine 
tea party tete-a-tete. He liked her best when she 


56 


Flower and Thorn 


gossiped, and when she laughed at his jokes. She 
did both now, and he liked her very much. 

It was he at last who made the move. They 
strolled together to the ball-room, and stopping on 
the threshold, they severally examined their pro- 
grammes. 

“Dear me, how annoying,” he said ; “I had for- 
gotten that I was engaged for this last supper 
dance.” 

He adjusted his eyeglass in his eye, and looked 
through the thinned ranks of dancers. The hand- 
some girl whom Valerie had noticed before danced 
by, looking at him and laughing wickedly enough, 
and shaking her head. 

“There she is. It is all right, she is dancing.” 

He turned to Valerie. Her eyes were on her pro- 
gramme. “D. G.,” “D. G.,” “D. G.” 

“D. G.’s” third dance was nearly over. 

“May I have this waltz?” 

“I, too, am engaged.” 

“Where is he?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you going to wait for him?” 

“Yes,” she said, with a smile and a sigh. She 
was tired of the ball; her eyes followed her rival. 
Valerie had an intuitive knowledge that that fair 


Flower and Thorn 


57 


girl was a rival, and one whom she could not afford 
to despise. As her eyes roved, they fell upon the 
man for whom she had ostentatiously told Mr. 
Wetheral she would wait. She made a gesture 
with her hand, and he came to her at once. 

“I have been at supper,” graciously. “I am so 
sorry.” 

“So am I,” said he, with his straight grave eyes 
on hers. Then he put his arm around her, and they 
danced on and on till the music stopped. 

Captain Guthrie had no feminine faculty for chit- 
chat. He found it difficult to express himself, and 
required a more than ordinary pressure of feeling 
to induce him to put such feeling into words. He 
was a good listener; he expected Valerie to talk to 
him. Gossip did not amuse him, he forgot the 
points of it. Valerie understood this, but when she 
cared to do so, she knew just the best knack of 
interesting him. 

Mr. Wetheral, with his eyeglass in his eye, 
watched her from the door of the ball-room. The 
pathetic foreign beauty of her face, the little tricks 
of manner that he liked, the grace of movement; 
he stood and watched them eagerly, openly, for all 
this corner of the observant world to see. 

“Dear, dear, all alone, Mr. Wetheral, and I let 


58 Flower and Thorn 

you cut me out, and I wasn’t offended,” laughed a 
fresh voice at his side. 

The speaker was such a nice child, such a beau- 
tiful child, who had taken a great fancy to him, he 
was told, who liked his company, and who envied 
Miss Talbot in a frank, ingratiating way. This girl 
was staying with his mother. He was in the house 
with her. She was a desirable young person of 
position; sh^ had been asked to Malden for a pur- 
pose which Mr. Wetheral divined. As a protest 
against this purpose the orchid bouquet had gone 
to Valerie. This slim young man with the small 
head could not be driven. His parents knew it. 
They invited Alice Campbell, and she came. She 
was a pink and white, fresh girl, who admired Miss 
Talbot beyond reason, and who seemed to think 
Mr. Wetheral was booked for good and all. Mr. 
Wetheral felt a Briton’s love of freedom neverthe- 
less. 

It is not displeasing to know that the wortien- 
kind are all alive to your advantages. Life was 
very smooth to Mr. Wetheral. To be a ^^parti” has 
its pros and cons like other states. Mr. Wetheral 
did not wish to be married for his acres, but for his 
charms. He would have liked to play the Lord of 
Burleigh, but it is never a safe game. 


Flower and Thorn 


59 


That fellow, Guthrie, was a haggard, white- 
faced fellow with a pair of wicked-looking eyes. 
Sinews and inches are attributes that fragile-look- 
ing women admire. What a broad, thin-flanked, 
well-made, good-looking chap the fellow was. How 
well Valerie’s white gown, and her beautiful white 
arms and shoulders, looked by the red coat. When 
uniforms are about, women should wear nothing 
but white. 

“Supper cut you out. Lady Alice, not I.” 

“What a clumsy apology.” 

“I’m a clumsy man, I know, but will you dance 
this next thing with me?” 

She shook out her tulle skirts, and stationed her- 
self beside him complacently. 

“All right, I don’t mind. I will forgive supper 
and you. Only don’t be jealous, and stare at Miss 
Talbot’s partner, but just for five minutes attend to 
me. She will appreciate you all the more later on.” 

There was wisdom in these words. Mr. Wetheral 
“attended” to Lady Alice for more than the speci- 
fied time. Later, he found Valerie as the girl had 
predicted, namely, more appreciative than before. 

The crisis was near at hand; during the conclud- 
ing dances Mr. Wetheral remained in devoted at- 
tendance on Miss Talbot. It was a toss-up whether 


6o 


Flower and Thorn 


he spoke to her in the corridor or not. There were 
momentous words on his tongue more than once, 
but Fate conspired against him — he never got an 
opportunity to seal his fortune. Valerie grew a 
shade constrained and nervous. She did not help 
him out. 

The ball was nearly over. In common decency 
she could not stay longer. Her squire waited for 
her at the cloak-room door. She came out slowly, 
her small face looking very pale above the soft 
white coat she wore. Her bouquet was still in her 
hand, but drooping and weary. She took Mr. 
Wetheral’s arm. He led her to the carriage, talk- 
ing all the way. She could not withdraw from his 
enclosing hand, and bid him good-bye in the brisk 
orthodox mode. He was holding her hand fast — 
his head very near hers. There was a prematurely 
possessive air about him. 

“Good-bye. Good-bye till to-morrow,” he said; 
“only till to-morrow. I shall come and see you to- 
morrow.” 

The cab rattled and jarred on its homeward way. 
Valerie’s chaperon leaned forward and smiled upon 
her. Mr. Wetheral had not lowered his voice, he 
had spoken clearly. 


Flower and Thorn 6i 

“May I — may I congratulate you, my dear? I 
must be the very first to wish you joy.” 

Valerie thought over the words a moment before 
she answered. It was, of course, virtually done. 
She felt oppressed. 

“I have enjoyed my ball very much,” she said 
demurely, “but that is all, dear Mrs. Hamilton. The 
joy is over, I am afraid. I am stiffening already. I 
danced hard.” 

Mrs. Hamilton held her tongue, and nodded her 
head. She had made a faux-pas, but if Miss Talbot 
was not engaged, she ought to be. 

Valerie was not dubious as to her position, and 
she did not trouble herself about Mrs. Hamilton’s 
views. She was to be given her chance to-morrow, 
when all the whispers would cease, and the tongues 
be let loose. Mr. Wetheral was assuredly going to 
ask her to marry him. She never doubted that he 
would do so, nor did she doubt what her answer 
would be. She did not object to her reprieve, but 
she wished the momentous interview over. Heigh- 
ho ! Sh6 would be glad when to-morrow had turned 
into yesterday. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“Where art thou, beloved to-morrow? 

When young and old, and strong and weak, 

Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, 

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek. 

In thy place — ah, well-a-day ! — 

We find the thing we fled — To-day,” 

The day following the Artillery Ball was one of 
the longest that Valerie Talbot ever remembered 
to have spent. She rose unrefreshed, after a 
dreamy, troubled sleep. A strong undercurrent of 
excitement spoilt her breakfast, and kept her 
strained and unnatural. 

It was no good to reason with herself — she could 
not face the coming tete-d-tete calmly. Mr, Weth- 
eral would be as essentially mild a lover as he was 
mild a man, yet she was loath to come to conclu- 
sions. He would break no bonds nor would he 
carry her off her feet by vehement assault. 

She never dreamed of letting herself off the 
coming crisis, but she shirked it. He had virtually 
told her what he meant to do. She believed him. 


Flower and Thorn 


63 


She was a candid person, and she always expected 
people to do as they promised. 

It did not strike her that “colours seen by can- 
dle-light do not look the same by day;” it did not 
strike her that Mr. Wetheral allowed himself li- 
cense. An Englishman’s word was his bond. He 
had said he would come, and of course he would 
do what he said. Women were not always to be 
trusted, but she believed in this young man. 

Mrs. Beauchamp was excited too. She had no 
qualms to spoil her pleasure. After lunch she went 
to her room to lie down, her head seething with 
trousseaux and weddings, men-servants and maid- 
servants, and “strangers-within-gates.” 

Valerie had said Mr. Wetheral was coming; she 
had said it was all right, and Valerie was to be 
trusted. Mrs. Beauchamp had sent her husband to 
the club with the good news warming his breast, 
and in an odd, indirect way filling his pockets, so 
that he was readier even than usual to stake mon- 
keys and ponies and paltry fivers on cards and 
horses, and to back his own opinion for somewhat 
more than all it was worth. 

The Beauchamps’ drawing-room was a seductive 
room, cheery with chintz and flowers. The floral 
decorations were left to Valerie, and she did her 


64 


Flower and Thorn 


part of the business with artistic hand. Palms and 
ferns and flowers she bought most lavishly, and ar- 
ranged to advantage. 

“A room without flowers is as impossible as a 
life without love.” 

Mrs. Beauchamp had instilled this principle into 
her daughter from the days of sock and coral. 
Valerie must never grudge herself either such ne- 
cessity of existence. 

The early winter darkness had come on. Valerie 
was glad to draw the curtains, and to have the 
lamps brought in as soon as there was an excuse 
for them that afternoon. Artificial lights are a con- 
solation when artifice of any sort is a necessity. 
Three o’clock — four o’clock — half-past four struck 
— still she sat alone in the drawing-room. The 
jonquils, the hyacinths, the cityssus scented the air. 
A vague apprehension came unbidden, and under- 
mined the excitement which had brought colour 
to Valerie’s cheek. She had a robin-like look in 
her brown dress with a touch of red at her breast. 
Brown went well with her dark eyes and her cop- 
per-brass hair. 

But the long delay was telling on her; she was 
beginning to look tired, she was growing pale, and 
her eyes were haggard;, she looked all eyes. 


Flower and Thorn 65 

A servant was bringing in tea on the best of all 
the Chippendale trays. 

As Anne closed the door, a bell rang a loud, con- 
sequential peal. 

Valerie drew a great deep breath. If her heart 
and soul, as well as her mind and head, had been 
concerned in the audible arrival, she could not have 
been more choked and deafened by the beating of 
her heart. 

Why had she expected him before? Tea-time 
was, of course, the hour he would choose. 

She fought for self-possession. The whole fe- 
male population was mostly married. Was she 
going to lose her head at a mere preliminary of the 
ceremony? 

The door opened. With a faint smile she turned 
her head towards the incomer. 

“Captain Guthrie, ’m.” 

Valerie’s smile died. She got up, holding out 
her hand. 

David took it, and stared at her. 

What was she afraid of? he asked himself. What 
on earth was she afraid of? They had settled long 
ago that she had nothing to fear. He would not 
have paid this purely formal call of civility had 
there been anything dangerous behind. He told 


66 


Flower and Thorn 


himself this, and he believed it. Cordial friendship 
he deserved; his position demanded it. 

He drank his tea; it was delicious, creamed and 
sugared, hot, fragrant. She offered him the deli- 
cacies around, but he did not eat thereof. She 
knew the axiom, “Feed the beast,” but hardly un- 
derstood this axiom did not literally apply to spin- 
sters. It is later in the programme that cooks come 
in with supreme importance in the relations of the 
sexes. 

Presently he found out that she was absent, that 
whilst she was talking to him she was listening for 
something besides his voice. She had asked him to 
come and see them. She had said that Mrs. 
Beauchamp longed to talk to him of Kaiser, of 
Felixstowe, of dear old days. And, the invitation 
falling in with his inclination, he had come — and 
she did not want him. He felt that. 

With a sudden thrill of something which he did 
not call jealousy, he realised what it meant. 

“Whom were you expecting?” he said, with a 
trace of the old Plymouth days in his eyes. “I 
don’t fancy you want me, do you, Valerie? I — I 
believe you were expecting someone.” 

Five o’clock had come and gone. Valerie looked 
at the clock. She could always tell David any- 


Flower and Thorn 


67 


thing — he invited confidence. It was better he 
should know. Why should he not know? She 
had got to marry someone, a someone not David. 

Mr. Wetheral was late, but he was sure to be 
here soon. She had not dreamed of such humilia- 
tion as to be left in the lurch at such an advanced 
station on the road. She had done nothing to de- 
serve such a fate. 

Mr. Wetheral had said everything needful, ex- 
cept the putting of the last short question. At this 
moment he must be nearing the house, intent upon 
the fateful interrogation. Aye, or Nay. 

It was better that David should know, and that 
he should go. Mr. Wetheral would not like to 
find him there when he came. 

“Yes, I am expecting Mr. Wetheral,” she said, 
looking up and meeting the grey eyes, the keen 
directness of which struck her anew. In contrast 
with their strong, fierce light, all other eyes looked 
spiritless and dull. 

“Is it ?” asked David. His voice was deep 

and kind, very gently pitched — the voice of one 
to whom her weal or woe was dear. “Is it all set- 
tled, Valerie? I hope — I hope that you’ll be 
happy.” 


68 


Flower and Thorn 


“He is coming this afternoon,” she answered, 
her voice lowered too. “I am expecting him.” 

Captain Guthrie got up. He lifted his brows, 
his expression changed. 

“Haven’t you heard?” he said. “I thought you 
were sure to know.” 

“I have heard nothing. What is it?” 

“The Malden people came to grief on their way 
home last night. The horses took fright at the 
lodge, and bolted across the park, crashed up 
against a tree, and turned them all out. No 
one was much hurt. Wetheral got a bad shaking, 
and that pretty girl with them broke her wrist. 
Harding was there; he came back to-day and told 
me about it. He said it was a mercy no one was 
killed. But Wetheral is laid up for a bit with a 
damaged rib and a scratch or two. Of course I 
thought you knew. I thought you would have 
heard. There is nothing to be frightened at, it’s 
quite a trivial hurt.” 

He supposed she cared for the fellow; women’s 
tastes were odd. 

He felt, with a pang, that acres and money-bags 
and the flesh-pots of Egypt were amazingly fine 
things to possess. To those who had much, much 
was given. 


Flower and Thorn 


69 


You could not buy love, though. Those men 
with money got a wife for a wink — but it must be 
mighty difficult for them to know whether she 
came for what she could get, or because she liked 
her husband. No doubt men and women got used 
to all the money goods of life very soon, but the 
want of an appreciative helpmate must be always 
with you. 

Captain Guthrie, anyhow, would never be mar- 
ried for money. He did not at that moment con- 
template being married for convenience, but such 
was to be his fate, and ere long he proceeded open- 
eyed to walk into it. 

The nerves of the miserable Malden horses that 
'fled from a line of washed linen fluttering in the 
moonshine had much to answer for. They turned 
the wild wheel of matrimonial fate in this western 
corner of the world with a vengeance. 

Valerie expected Mr. Wetheral in vain. He did 
not send, he did not write, he did not come. She 
heard nothing from him. 

She suffered from many wounds, wounds of 
divers sorts and kinds, but she escaped the worst 
wound of all, for she had no genuine heartache. 
The pin-pricks of a thousand mortifications, the 
pity of her neighbours, the chagrin of her step- 


70 


Flower and Thorn 


father, the acute unhappiness of her disappointed 
mother, the wretchedness of want of money, the 
collapse of day-dreams, of power, of the whole fu- 
ture, were wounds which were all alike inflicted 
upon her. She lived through a month of her peo- 
ple’s candid anxieties, surmises, conjectures, ap- 
prehensions. 

Mr. Wetheral was not at Malden; he was staying 
in Norfolk. This much they knew. They feared 
worse, and rightly feared it, for worse was to fol- 
low. But Valerie, until the announcement in the 
Morning Post, the public notice of Mr. Wetheral’s 
engagement to Lady Alice Campbell, dispelled all 
illusions to the contrary, had carried a bold front, 
had refused to discuss the matter even with her 
nearest and dearest, and repeatedly stated to her 
mother that what was all wrong would come all 
right. 

Mr. Wetheral was to be married at Easter, and 
Miss Talbot’s pride had had a fall. 

She did not like it. What woman, of the many 
who have to suffer it, undergo such a position 
gracefully? 

Valerie did the natural thing. She pretended 
not to mind. She knew that she was a nine days’ 
wonder, that she was laughed at, pitied and de- 


Flower and Thorn 


71 


spised. Whilst the nine days lasted, she pretended 
very well, but when they were over, and all the 
dramatic part of the situation at an end, she began 
to show signs of the evil days through which she 
had passed. She wanted to go away from Leigh, 
but to do so was to show the white feather. The 
situation had to be faced out, and Valerie deter- 
mined to face it now and get it over. 

Her detractors, and these people were numerous, 
for Miss Talbot had been so marked a success in 
the social word as to arouse envy, malice, and all 
uncharitableness, were spiteful about her. They 
beat the subject of her humiliation out thin, and 
still hammered away on the shreds of it. 

Captain Guthrie was dead sick of it. Never did 
he dine out, nor see a friend, nor pay one of the 
necessary calls of a new-comer, without directly, or 
indirectly, hearing something “nasty” about Miss 
Talbot. 

Some men are slaves to public opinion; most 
men are biassed by it. Captain Guthrie had until 
now deemed himself as the rest of the world, but he 
was not sufficiently influenced to join in the stone- 
throwing at forlorn Valerie. On the contrary; he 
was otherwise affected by it. The chivalry of his 
nature, the friendship, the more than friendship, he 


72 


Flower and Thorn 


had felt for this traduced person, the compassion 
of a naturally kind heart, a manly dislike to gossip, 
a good hatred for Mr. Wetheral, pity for the most 
attractive woman he had ever met, were sufficient 
emotions, when blended together by a certain dog- 
gedness of disposition, to drive this canny Scotch- 
man into making a fool of himself. 

Of course, in cold blood he would not have sug- 
gested such a thing to himself as the possibility of 
marrying a disappointed lady to help her to look as 
if she had not been disappointed. Those few thou- 
sand pounds in the funds had not swelled as his 
heart swelled. That hunter would have to go. And 
the small shoot grow smaller yet, and — and — poor 
David — but poorer Valerie, with all these knives 
stuck into her by these tongues about him. 

Pity’s kinsman took him in hand, and an all- 
powerful kinsman he proved himself. Captain 
Guthrie had kept out of Valerie’s way for many a 
week, but he had not forgotten her. He had never 
thought so much of her since those far-off Ply- 
mouth days. He could do nothing to help her, but 
he was ready to do what he could. 


CHAPTER V. 


“And women, things that live and move, 

Mined by the fever of the soul — 

They seek to find in those they love. 

Stern strength and promise of control. 

They ask not kindness, gentle ways; 

These they themselves have tried and known. 

They ask a soul that never sways 
With the blind gusts that shake their own.” 

March had left off roaring. Relinquishing all 
lion-like propensities, it had mellowed down in its 
old age, until the yearly wonder of its lamb-like 
death struck the world afresh. 

With spring sunshine flooding the country side, 
and pungent spring scenting the air, it is hard to 
wear the willow, hard to remember that willows 
are much worn. 

Valerie had been to a dinner party on the even- 
ing preceding this joyous spring day. Captain 
Guthrie had taken her in to dinner, and he had been 
pleasant and kind ; she had liked him. 

Other people had an observance, a shade of cu- 
riosity, a something new, in their manner towards 
her, which she recognised and resented, without 


74 


Flower and Thorn 


defining. Captain Guthrie’s cordial preference did 
her good. 

She had almost enjoyed herself in her old way 
until the end of the evening came. She was making 
her adieux, when she was rudely reminded of her 
willow. 

Valerie was always attractive. She attracted at- 
tention unwittingly. Her conspicuous hair, her 
willowy height, her quick, eager manner, her fair, 
expressive face could not easily be overlooked. 

That night she had worn white — a white dress 
with a bunch of jessamine tucked into the green 
sash that bound her slender waist, and jessamine 
bound in the deep waves of her hair. 

She had risen, and was in the act of bidding her 
hostess good-night. 

Captain Guthrie’s eyes were not the only ones 
which were observing her. No wonder that a 
sharp-faced woman with a plain daughter could not 
resist the temptation to be ill-natured about her. 

By an untoward, but not unusual, social acck 
dent, a sudden silence fell on the room, one of those 
unaccountable pauses in a babble of general con- 
versation in which some speaker’s voice falls in 
strong relief upon an awkward stillness. 

“Green and white, deserted quite,” said such a 


Flower and Thorn 


75 


voice. “Miss Talbot has dressed in character to- 
night,” 

The voice was subdued, but clear and impressive. 
Everyone in the room heard the remark. 

Miss Talbot did not pretend not to hear. Her 
stag-like eyes opened widely, she pretended 
nothing. She finished her good-byes hurriedly. 
Like another Cinderella, recalled by a sound to a 
sense of her forgotten status, she left her party. 

One of the guests said more than his prayers as 
the door closed behind her. He had looked away 
from her in a moment, but he had seen enough on 
her face to make his heart beat and his eyes kindle. 

“Green and white, 

Deserted quite.” 

Vapid doggerel, but he guessed how she felt the 
vapid doggerel running in her ears. He could do 
no good; he could not help her. He wished he could 
get a few quiet words with Wetheral, only a word 
or two, and then perhaps Captain Guthrie would 
feel more comfortable in his own mind than he had 
done since the Artillery Ball. 

Next morning the sun shone with a promise of 
summer, the air stirred with life. To be “deserted 
quite,” and yet to get up and to enjoy the vigour of 


76 


Flower and Thorn 


the morning, seemed possible somehow to Valerie. 
She was not going to throw up the sponge, though 
she had cried herself to sleep the night before. But 
then she did not bargain for more clouds than those 
personal ones which had of late been driven her 
way from heaven. Things took a different aspect 
when, later on in the day, she came down to the 
drawing-room and found her mother lying with 
her face in a sofa cushion, crying her eyes out. 

“What is it, darling?” said Valerie, tenderly. She 
was very fond of her mother. Hers was not a crit- 
ical mind; she would have shrunk from a modern 
talent for finding flaws in faulty parents, had she 
possessed it. She had not been civilised away from 
natural affection. 

“Oh, Valerie, Valerie, I am worried to death. I 
am beside myself. This, indeed, seems like the end 
of all things.” 

The trouble soon came out. Murder will out, 
and so, alas, will lesser sins. The end of all things, 
as Mrs. Beauchamp called it, was serious as the 
Judgment. It took the present form of a lawyer’s 
letter, concerning the wishes of the Beauchamps’ 
long-suffering landlord, informing them that the 
rent was twenty months overdue, and giving them 
a curt notice to quit their house at Lady Day, 


Flower and Thorn 


77 


which had been sold to a new tenant over their 
heads. 

Valerie listened to the story. She had been 
brought up in a world of money worries. Nothing 
more serious than an overflow of half-yearly bills 
had hitherto befallen the household — surprise bills, 
which had, nevertheless, to be reckoned with, had 
formed the Beauchamps’ cross in life. Valerie had 
taken them lightly, as a matter of Christmas and 
Midsummer, but she could not take this Lady Day 
trial serenely. She ’re-read the lawyer’s letter with 
a sigh. 

“How very unpleasant, mother.” 

“It is more unpleasant than you know, Valerie. 
I really don’t believe Uncle Archibald will ever 
die.” She alluded to her husband’s uncle, from 
whom Mr. Beauchamp had expectations. “Eric 
has had the money. I gave it to him for rent, and 
of course he put it on horses. You know what 
horses are — the wrong one invariably wins; and 
then, when poor Eric meant to make his fortune, 
he loses the only money we have just now. I’m 
sure I don’t know who makes money on the Turf. 
It sounds so simple. I have tried it myself, but I 
have never done any good. There is nothing 
straight about it.” 


78 Flower and Thorn 

Valerie’s eyes were still on the letter. 

“I wonder if it’s legal,” said she, “to have sold 
this house now, without letting you know.” 

“My dearest, we can’t go to law; we cannot af- 
ford that. It is as great ruination in its way as 
the Turf, with no amusement either for your 
money. We shall have to turn out, and this house 
suits us so well; such a large drawing-room, and a 
south aspect, and everything fitting properly.” 

“I suppose we must pay him the rent, horrid 
man.” 

“Of course. He is not in a mood to wait; one 
can see that from his letter.” 

“It is short notice.” 

“It hardly gives one time to turn round. Valerie, 
you are smiling. How can you smile?” 

“I was not smiling.” 

“Perhaps after this annoyance we have all had 
lately, it is pleasanter for you, dear, that we should 
go. But I” — and here Mrs. Beauchamp cried 
afresh — “had hoped to live for the rest of my life 
here. I know Eric will want to go to London. He 
will live at the club, and we shall be as poor as rats, 
and in a horrid part of London. My settlement 
was very small, only four thousand pounds, Va- 
lerie, and I have been raising and raising money so 


Flower and Thorn 


79 


since I married again, that there is really very little 
left besides my settlement. If you marry, I shall 
not worry. Eric and I could pig it somewhere out 
of sight. I daresay we shall not get any of Uncle 
Archibald’s money. I could stay with you, dear, 
when I wanted luxury. But there, we agreed not 
to discuss it, didn’t we? The most attractive women 
seldom marry young. I did not marry young my- 
self.” 

Poor Mrs. Beauchamp ! Her daughter sat down 
beside her, taking her little faded hand in hers, and 
set to work to comfort her. 

They would not go to London; they would go 
abroad. Mrs. Beauchamp loved Continental life, 
and Valerie would set herself to like it too, though 
hitherto she had not felt the allurements of the Con- 
tinent. 

A little money more must be raised, of course, 
for this audacious landlord, and then, with clean 
heels, the Beauchamp contingent might go abroad, 
and economise, hard by a Kursaal, somewhere in 
the dear Fatherland, where Valerie would fiddle 
and — ahem! — amuse herself, and her mother take 
waters. 

Valerie dressed up the project, until it bore an 
almost festive air, and Mrs. Beauchamp dried her 


8o 


Flower and Thorn 


eyes, and her still pretty lips began to curve again 
into faded smiles, and she was presently induced to 
allow herself to be tucked up on the sofa, to take 
her daily afternoon repose, whereby she kept such 
fragile health together as was hers. 

“And are you going out, Valerie?” 

“Yes, I want a walk, and cook wants eggs. I am 
going to Dowells’ farm to order them.” 

“Shall you be back for tea?” 

“Oh, yes, I shall be home by five quite easily.” 

Valerie set out for this long country walk in 
sober mind. She had put down several surface 
roots in this home of hers, which it was a wrench 
to drag up. Nevertheless, she did not bemoan the 
turn which her life was taking. Everyone who 
formed Valerie’s world would hear why she was 
leaving Leigh. They would hear that the Beau- 
champs’ house had been let over their heads; they 
would understand that Miss Talbot was not shirk- 
ing their compassionate observation. 

On the whole she was glad to go, glad to leave a 
neighbourhood where she had been introduced to 
the Valley of Humiliation, glad to be saved im- 
pending garden parties, where she would be called 
upon to meet the bride and bridegroom, the feting 
of whom would form the nucleus of summer dissi- 


Flower and Thorn 


8i 


pation. She was glad to go, but she sighed as she 
walked along the winding lanes, with her face 
turned to the hills, amongst the undulating slopes 
of which the Dowells’ farm lay perched, for she 
loved this country side — it was her home. 

The restfulness of the country seemed attractive 
to-day. Valerie felt no disgust at the domesticity 
of it all. Money, and the things money gave, 
seemed less desirable than usual. She was ready 
to turn her back on the joy of clothing, the love of 
purple and fine linen, the desire of gems and jewels, 
of sparkle and excitement, and to spurn the pride 
of life that had allured her in the past. She was 
ready to envy Mrs. Martin, who passed in the 
governess’ cart with four children, a mushroom 
hat on her prim head, ambling along on her slow 
way to her dowdy husband in the dowdy cottage, 
miles off on the valley side. 

Aye, Miss Talbot, in this chastened mood, was 
keenly alive to the beauty of the landscape, and the 
better fortune of her neighbours. 

The newly-thatched roof of the farm was yellow 
as corn in the sun. Behind it, on higher ground, 
rose a group of red-tiled outhouses and neutral- 
tinted ricks. The farm was approached through a 
trim garden, bordered with square yew hedges. 


82 


Flower and Thorn 


On either side of the mossy path of the garden 
grew clusters of white pinks that scented the air 
far and near. 

Mrs. Dowell was standing in the porch when 
Miss Talbot reached it, and she greeted her and 
her florin, and her order civilly. Valerie had a 
taking face, and Mrs. Dowell answered to its 
charm. 

“A pretty farm. Yes, miss, but dull enough un- 
less you are too busy to think of it, like I am. But 
I am glad to hear you admire it. Some folks I 
know do think a lot of this side of the country.” 

‘T like an excuse to come here, Mrs. Dowell. It 
is the loveliest farm in the county.” 

“But there, we can’t live on looks, miss. Times 
are bad. They don’t improve. They are no better 
with farmers than they have been now for years, so 
me and my master have rigged up a couple of 
rooms — a good bedroom, miss, and the parlour 
here. In summer-time we hope to let them from 
the spring to autumn. If you.^ihould meet with 
anyone wanting some such place, please think of 
me, and I shall be most thankful. I’m sure.” 

“I won’t forget, but I am going away from 
Leigh very soon.” 

“Going away?” genially. “I heard as much, and 


Flower and Thorn 


83 


I’m not surprised. I’ve passed the remark to 
Dowell times upon mind how much I’ve wondered 
to see such a young lady as you left behind. There, 
miss, I mustn’t stop. It’s a busy day with me, but 
I’m sure I wish you joy. Don’t be too long, or it 
comes to the crooked stick at last.” 

“What lovely flowers. They do well here.” 

“If you’d care to have a pink or two, you are 
very welcome to them. They are in their prime to- 
day. They won’t last in this fierce sun; it’s fetched 
them all out in their thousands. I can’t bide to 
pick, but fill your hands, miss, if you fancy ’em. 
No one sees them here but me and master and the 
little ones.” 

Valerie was not in any way a thrifty soul. Where 
flowers were in question she was lavish, lavish as 
nature at the Dowells’ farm. 

She stooped and gathered the pinks slowly. 
Pigeons on the dove-cote above cooed and strut- 
ted, bees hummed, a finch sung close to her 
shoulder from amongst the thick foliage of the 
mulberry tree. Thrushes were singing their hearts 
out in the little wood beyond the pond. A broad 
meadow lay between the wood and garden, from 
which lambs and sheep added their voices to the 
many sounds. A clear brook that sung over a 


84 


Flower and Thorn 


bed of pebbles through green banks of turf inter- 
sected the flock. 

When her hands were full, Valerie smelt the 
fragrant pinked-out petals of her flowers. They 
were sweet, soft, white, warm, as was her modest 
desire that her life might be. 

As the twig is bent the tree inclines to grow. 
Valerie had been what a gardener would call care- 
lessly planted. No sort of training or pruning had 
been hers. She made for the sunshine naturally. 

She turned a shoulder to the shades of life if it 
was possible to do so, but now, on her way through 
the garden to the lane, she stumbled over a dog, a 
wretched lame old sheep-dog, that lay dying slowly 
by inches in the sun. 

Miss Talbot had a tender heart for animals. She 
stopped to smooth his poor rough coat. His 
pathetic eyes hurt her, insisting upon the suffering 
side of life, such suffering as those of her pleasure- 
seeking creed brace themselves to ignore. He was 
not responsive to her pity, but growled at her, 
showing his loosened fangs. 

How far, far kinder to have put the poor wretch 
out of his pain, and out of sight. She drew away, 
and walked on, with tears of compassion in her 
eyes. 


Flower and Thorn 


85 


The fates that day were busy as the bees. 
Valerie’s emotions had been so stirred by circum- 
stance that tears rose to her eyes because a dog 
had had his day, and lay dying. 

The sun had brought out the pinks, and had 
warmed the scent alike of them and of the green 
freshness of the hillside. Captain Guthrie was 
riding through the lane this afternoon. The fates 
had sent him upon his way. His heart was light. 
He had had good news that morning, news which 
set him in tune with the spring. He was thinking 
of the future, and into his thoughts that little un- 
comfortable, awkward contretemps of the night be- 
fore intruded itself persistently. 

Women were hard on one another. Women 
never said kind things of Valerie. Poor Valerie. 
That powerful kinsman of pity, with whom Captain 
Guthrie had not reckoned, arose in his strength at 
this moment. Here the girl was. She came 
through the gate out under his horse’s feet. 

He got off his horse, and she stood smiling at 
him in his path. 

“Green and white, 

Deserted quite.” 

Yes, a green hedge behind a small white face. 
Yes, yes, white flowers in her hand, ferns and rank 


86 


Flower and Thorn 


green grass in the bank beyond her. Deserted? 
Those dark eyes, wet with tears, and the red lips, 
and the smile, and the voice like a bell, and the 
friendly greeting. Deserted? Not by him. Never 
by him. 

Money — money? Who cast a thought to pru- 
dence, and a fitness for a poor man’s wife, and bad 
matches, and a woman who did not know the value 
of money, when Pity’s omnipotent relation put out 
his strength? and tears were here, and smiles, and a 
gentle greeting. 

Valerie knew the look on his face. She had seen 
it there before. She knew what was coming. She 
wanted time to think. Aye or nay it must be. 
This man was not to be trifled with. She might 
not play fast and loose with him. He was a man. 
He would take her “No” or her “Yes,” and stick 
to it. 

“Why are you crying?” 

“I am not crying.” 

“There are tears in your eyes.” 

“I saw a wretched dog at the farm — dying.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Yes. I couldn’t bear the dog’s eyes.” She was 
nervous and constrained, and talked jerkily. 


Flower and Thorn 87 

“Dumb, you see. It must be so terrible to want to 
speak, and yet to be dumb.” 

“But was it only the dog?” 

“Yes. Yes and no. The dog was a climax. I 
have been worried.” 

Captain Guthrie’s face set. He thought a mo- 
ment. 

“Is it a worry you can tell me of?” 

“Yes, if you care to hear.” 

“You know I care. Tell me. What is the mat- 
ter?” 

“Our landlord is turning us out. He has sold 
our house, and the new owner is to live in it. We 
are leaving Leigh.” 

“Is that all?” 

“Isn’t that enough?” 

There was a silence; it was coming. Her heart 
beat none the faster, but her fingers grew chilly, 
and the pinks in them trembled. 

“Valerie, I want you to listen. I want you to 
answer me a question. Did — did you care for 
Wetheral?” 

She shook her head at once. 

“You forget,” she laughed, nervously, catching 
her breath, “my sex don’t care too soon. It is not 
—done.” 


88 


Flower and Thorn 


“Seriously, Valerie?” 

“Quite seriously.” 

“I never thought you did — and yet you would 
have married him.” 

She turned her head aside. He saw her lip trem- 
ble, and it was all over. 

“Valerie, will you be my wife? Will you marry 
a poor chap like me? You’ll not marry me for 
money, I know that. Can you marry me for some- 
thing else? — for love, darling, for my love, Valerie, 
because I love you.” 

What peace was here offered her. What a peace- 
ful posture she might take if she put her head down 
on the frieze shoulder, that looked strong and 
broad enough for an eternal rest. What a tempta- 
tion to count no costs, and to lift her face to his, 
and answer him as he wished to be answered. 

To be settled like dowdy Mrs. Martin, and fat 
Mrs. Dowell in the farm. Married and settled — 
ambition and all its attendant train of restless 
spirits laid in a lowly home, once and for all. 

“My darling, I will be tender to you. I will be 
true to you,” he was repeating half-incoherently to 
her, with white lips, and light in his keen eyes. 

Tender, true. Words of promise these, leading 
to the land of promise, smoothing the way thither. 


Flower and Thorn 


89 


She looked him in the face. Eyes so dark and beau- 
tiful as hers spoke language of which their author 
was innocent. 

“Valerie, Valerie, do you mean it? Will you try 
me? Will you? Will you?” 

And it seemed she would. She was conscious of 
what she was doing. She could watch him and 
weigh his words, but he had lost his head, and had 
let himself go, showing the side which such a man 
does not usually face the world with. 

Captain Guthrie’s horse, which he had by the 
bridle, broke through the tender scene. He was 
young and of high temper. He rebelled at his part 
of the programme, and let his master hear of it by 
a stampede upon the loose flint stones of the lane. 
In calming his steed. Captain Guthrie calmed him- 
self, and Valerie regained her self-possession. She 
liked the man, his gentleness to the animal, his sup- 
pressed strength, his sudden passion, his assault 
upon her. 

“You are rather mad,” she said. “I don’t quite 
know why things are possible to-day which were 
impossible when last you thought of them.” 

“You are worried, Valerie; things are different.” 
He was accurate, always over-accurate, saying in 
consequence what was true, not what was pleasant. 


90 


Flower and Thorn 


more often than was sometimes polite. “You have 
had a lot of worry one way and another. To-day I 
heard I’ve got the adjutancy of volunteers here. 
It’s a five years’ appointment — not a bad thing. It 
gave me a freer hand. I could just about afford it 
now. Luxuries won’t be rife, but there need be no 
worries, sweet. There shall be none if I can help it.” 

“Then you don’t care for me,” she said. 

“Valerie!” Not care, and he a canny Scotch- 
man, marrying her with his eyes open. 

“I won’t be married for pity.” Her eyes chal- 
lenged him. “You are marrying me for pity.” 

Her tone had changed; she spoke gaily. The 
adjutancy was such a great relief, and five years’ 
appointment gave one breathing time. One could 
live out of one’s boxes. India and all the draw- 
backs of a soldier’s wife might be banished to the 
background for a while. 

Valerie’s prudence was not a spontaneous 
growth; it had been knocked into her by her 
mother, and by the surroundings of her life. Es- 
sentially frivolous in her uprearing, she had been 
taught to live for such joys of life as are not domes- 
tic. In accepting Captain Guthrie’s suggestion ^ 
she would marry him without a qualm as to her 


i. 


Flower and Thorn 


91 


fitness for the wife of a poor man, in an expensive 
profession. 

Her mere acceptance conferred favour upon 
him. He swore, not once or twice, but twenty 
times, that he was the happiest man in the world, 
and she well believed him. 

She was going to marry him, to relinquish am- 
bition and to settle. She had had misgivings at the 
apprehension of Mr. Wetheral as a husband. She 
had no misgivings about David. 

He had been a friend of hers all her life, ever 
since the days when she had lost herself at Felix- 
stowe, and he had found her. She was a little awed 
by the thought of her future mother-in-law, with 
whom David spent his long leave, and of the cousin 
Jane, whose photograph David had shown her at 
Plymouth, and of whom he spoke with great 
friendliness. She had always told him that he 
would end by marrying his cousin Jane, but some 
years ago his cousin Jane had spoiled the prophecy 
by marrying a Government official, who had lately 
been appointed postmaster at Leigh. Therefore, 
before long, cousin Jane would be a relation-in-the- 
law with whom Valerie would have to reckon. 

It was past six o’clock. Tough bread and butter. 


92 


Flower and Thorn 


cold drawn tea, and a vexed mother awaited 
Valerie when she entered her home. 

“My dear child, I thought you were lost,” Mrs. 
Beauchamp cried, when Miss Talbot came into the 
room. 

“Do you remember when I was lost at Felix- 
stowe?” 

“I shall never forget it.” 

“Remember it now, mother.” And Valerie, ex- 
cited, agitated, with dewy eyes and unsteady lips, 
came over to her mother’s side and looked into her 
face. “Remember it now, because you will scold 
me if you forget it.” 

“Valerie, I don’t know what you mean. You 
talk rubbish.” 

“It is not rubbish, mother, it is quite sensible. I 
am coming to it. I met Captain Guthrie — David 
Guthrie. He has been made adjutant to the volun- 
teers. It’s a five years’ appointment. It’s a very 
good appointment — a horse kept for him and some 
money for a man, you know, and all that sort of 
thing, I believe — I mean — I expect. Five years, 
mother.” 

“What is that to us? Are you off your head, 
Valerie? You are looking ready to cry.” 

“It is a very great deal to us, mother. I — I am 
going to marry him.” 


Flower and Thorn 


93 


Poor Mrs. Beauchamp sat down on the sofa, 
covering her face with her hands. There was a des- 
perately long silence between the two women. 

“Won’t you wish me joy, mother?” 

“Wish you joy! Joy — with a man without a 
penny. A man with a temper — it is in his face. 
What do you see in him, Valerie? He is as dull as 
an oyster, as silent as a sphinx. What do you see 
in him?” 

“He is fond of me, mother.” 

“Of course he is, but it won’t last. It never lasts 
in such a case as this. He is a pis-aller. My dear, 
you should have waited — you should not have been 
in such a hurry. If the other man did fall through, 
he is not the only man in the world. You are bet- 
ter-looking than ever; you have plenty of time. 
To marry a man in a marching regiment, with- 
out a sixpence! I could never have believed it of 
you. Well, you have often disappointed me, 
Valerie, but never so terribly as now.” 

“Mother, he is a good fellow; he is all right. He 
is not a pauper. I am not going to disgrace you. 
Surely it might be worse.” 

Mrs. Beauchamp burst into tears. 

“I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to get 
something better than fate has sent your mother. 


94 


Flower and Thorn 


No one would compare with you, if you could af- 
ford to go to the very best people for your things. 
If you marry this man, you will have to make your 
own clothes; you will be wretched — you have no 
knack of contrivance. I know exactly what you 
will be. There will be children. He is one of those 
manly sort of men who don’t know how to help 
their wives, who don’t fit into a house, who are 
always an extra in their homes. He is not easy- 
going — do you remember that horrid, strait-laced, 
ugly woman, his mother? He will be imbued with 
her notions — men are always like their mothers; it 
comes out sooner or later. Your poor father was 
like his own mother. Oh, how unhappy she made 
me. She was so strict and difficult: so hard to 
satisfy : ready to see harm in the most trivial amuse- 
ments. Oh, Valerie, Valerie, you little know what 
you are undertaking. Married life is not as easy 
as you girls are led to suppose.” 

Valerie’s face fell, her eyes sank to the ground. 
There had been, in credit to David it must be al- 
lowed, a light and laughter in them when he had, 
some minutes previously, bidden her farewell. 

“Mother, I am going to marry him. Had we not 
better make the best of it? Mr. Wetheral was a 
better match, but, you see, he did not want me. 


Flower and Thorn 


95 


This man does want me. He is a bird in my hand, 
and, if he isn’t a golden pheasant, he is game 
enough for me. Good-looking? I may be good- 
looking; I am good-looking, but pretty women are 
as common as blackberries. I was told to my face 
to-day by the farmer’s wife that I mustn’t wait 
much longer. ‘You’ll be driven to take the crooked 
stick at last,’ she said. Now, mother. Captain 
Guthrie is not crooked; he is as straight as a man 
can be — and I am going to marry him.” 

“Valerie, don’t pretend that you are in love with 
the man, because I know better. You never had 
any heart, and women are safer without them. You 
would have married years ago if you had had more 
heart — men don’t like to do all the work. If you 
had had any heart, Mr. Wetheral would not have 
left you in the lurch.” 

“Don’t scold, mother. I thought you would be 
glad.” 

“I feel as if I could never be glad again,” wailed 
the poor lady, wringing her hands. “There have 
been so many worries to-day, and this is the 
climax.” 

These were the first congratulations which fell to 
Miss Talbot’s share. 


CHAPTER VI. 


“A heart as soft, a heart as kind, 

A heart as sound and free 
As in the whole world thou canst find — 

That heart I’ll give to thee.” 

Waiting for dead men’s shoes is ill work. Mr. 
Beauchamp from his boyhood had lived in expecta- 
tion of inheriting money from a bachelor uncle. 
There was nothing certain about this old gentle- 
man. His temper, the amount of his fortune, and 
the disposition of the same, were alike uncertain. 
The only reliable feature in his character was his 
age. He was ninety years old, and it seemed likely 
he would live to be a hundred, so hale and hearty 
an old man was he. 

Mr. Beauchamp had for years counted himself a 
rich man on his prospects, and his wife had taken 
him at his own valuation. It was only of late years 
that it had become less easy to live prospectively. 
Hope deferred had in this case done more than 
make hearts sick; it had made pockets empty, and 
pigeonholes full. It was driving Mr. Beauchamp 


Flower and Thorn 


97 


to seek his fortune elsewhere; it was ruining Mrs. 
Beauchamp’s health; it was even marrying Miss 
Talbot to Captain Guthrie. 

It was full time that Uncle Archibald died. 

Valerie and David had chosen the month of roses 
for their prospective wedding. David had been 
sentimental over the suitability of June, and Va- 
lerie had let him have his way. She was spending 
the last weeks of her spinsterhood, dismally 
enough, in rooms in Ebury Street; her trousseau 
getting was her only interest. Uncle Archibald’s 
enormous age could not but excuse the lavishness 
of its character. 

“It is the last time you will ever be able to afford 
anything good,” said Mrs. Beauchamp, encourag- 
ing her daughter to buy. “And the poor old man 
can’t live for ever. Influenza cuts people off in a 
few hours and it is very much about.” 

And the thought of influenza was cheering in a 
way, and drove the women to deal bravely in Bond 
Street, in lieu of Bayswater merchandise. 

The future Mrs. Guthrie had one great matri- 
monial advantage — she had been happy at home 
without expecting over-much of anyone. 

Her mother was fond of her, but not unreason- 
ably fond. She had never spared Valerie. If any- 


98 


Flower and Thorn 


one could be spared work or worry, it had been 
Mrs. Beauchamp. Even now, when Valerie had a 
girl’s natural desire for some token of extra affec- 
tion, of a certain deference and consideration for 
the last days of her maidenhood, she got nothing of 
the sort. She was shown that her people thought 
that she was making a fool of herself, that she was 
marrying badly, that she was a disappointment. 
She had been attractive, and she had nothing to 
show for it. She was a failure, and no one dis- 
guised the fact over-carefully. 

Only David did not think so. His letters came 
daily; he paid flying and other visits to town. He 
did all the practical work of matrimony : he took a 
furnished house on the outskirts of Leigh, he swal- 
lowed the wretched stable of the tenement because 
the drawing-room was desirable, and because there 
were roses creeping up the walls by the windows. 

His cousin Jane, Mrs. Mallam, was now living at 
Leigh, and she found him a couple of promising 
maids, and she saw to household necessities be- 
yond his province. It was at her instigation that 
he asked Valerie questions about wages and lard- 
ers, housemaids’ closets, cooking utensils and 
crockery, over which the bride-elect smiled, and 
which she invariably forgot to answer. 


Flower and Thorn 


99 


However, Jane was ready to settle any question 
that arose. She told her cousin what everything 
would cost in the future. She permitted him to 
keep a cart. Government provided the horse. 

It was simple as A B C, as she set it down on 
paper. She dotted down every imaginable ex- 
pense, leaving a respectable margin for extras and 
sundries. No wonder he felt justified in securing 
a very beautiful travelling bag for his bride, over 
and above the diamond hoop with which he had 
decorated the slim finger that was so specially 
Captain Guthrie’s own possession. He took 
Valerie with him to pay his invalid mother a week’s 
visit at Bath, and the visit had gone off better than 
he had dared to hope. Valerie’s natural charm was 
such a help in life. Mrs. Guthrie liked her — the 
week was not long enough to find out flaws in the 
pleasant, pretty woman who deferred to her gra- 
ciously, who was interested in the hip and the head- 
aches, and who never overdid Mrs. Guthrie with 
her company or her conversation. 

Captain Guthrie was in love, and Valerie set her- 
self to please him. 

If occasionally she spent over long a time about 
the writing of letters, and the sorting of patterns in 
1 L.ofC. 


oo 


Flower and Thorn 


her own room, and chafed him with her length of 
absence, all soreness went when he saw her. 

The lovers wandered about the beautiful old 
streets, and climbed the surrounding hills, and 
sunned themselves in the great park, and David 
dreamed lover’s dreams of a perfect life, and an 
angel on his arm, and a little local heaven in the 
villa at Leigh. 

He did not talk much, but Valerie talked, and he 
was a lover, and therefore a good listener. 

She was no dreamer of dreams. She knew David 
never grated upon, nor bored her. She knew that 
now he was her lover. She took what the gods 
provided, and did not look forward to the husband 
days as anything likely to be better or easier than 
the present. 

A coloured photograph of General Guthrie in 
uniform hung over Mrs. Guthrie’s writing-table in 
her morning-room. 

‘T think he has such a splendid face,” Valerie 
said, standing before the picture, and addressing 
David. “I admire that strong, manly sort of man. 
I was wondering” — she lowered her voice — “why 
they did not get on, David. I was wondering what 
went wrong.” 

“India did not suit my mother.” The son looked 


Flower and Thorn 


lOI 


constrained; he did not like the subject. “She came 
home, and — and I suppose he was a bit hurt at her 
leaving him. He did not say much, but it altered 
him, and they grew apart gradually, don’t you see? 
I don’t imagine there were any actual rows at all.” 

“When did he die?” 

“The year I got into the service. It was quite 
sudden; he was just coming home.” 

Valerie wore a blue silk blouse with pink roses 
embroidered upon it. There was some delicate lace 
round her throat; she was looking very girlish and 
attractive. Her dark eyes had returned to their 
study of General Guthrie. 

“He is like you,” she said; and then she, who 
was chary of any demonstration, slipped her hand 
within David’s arm, dropped the lightest of kisses 
upon his coat sleeve, and spoke with a sigh. 
“David, does it ever frighten you at all? Do you 
think we shall get on?” 

“We must risk that,” said he, tenderly. “We 
weren’t born yesterday ; we know there is a risk.” 

“But you love me now?” 

“I shall love you as long as I live.” 

“But men always think that.” 

“But I know it.” 

“Has it ever struck you we might not get on?” 


102 


Flower and Thorn 


“No — yes, not latterly. Ages ago, before you 
promised to marry me, I did not think you were 
the sort of woman who would like to be poor.” 

“I have always been poorish. At least, I have 
always spent more than I had.” 

David laughed. 

“You will have to be really poor, Valerie; but 
you are older now, and I think you understand.” 

“Money runs away, David. I look in my purse, 
and there is always a sovereign less than I expected 
to find there. A sovereign isn’t much, but it is a 
nuisance when it goes.” 

David laughed again. 

“I imagine,” said Valerie, “however rich one 
was, one would get used to all the luxuries and the 
money-bags in a month. If one marries for posi- 
tion there is always some one who has a smarter 
husband still; but I should like to be smart. We 
shall never be smart, David, shall we?” 

“Middle-class,” said David, cheerily, but he 
looked a little anxiously into the face with which 
he was so deeply in love at this moment. “Valerie, 
you are getting off it? Middle-class and poor you 
will be. I’m not over-gay. I am a silent, dull 
chap, I know.” 


Flower and Thorn 


103 


She caught the anxiety of his voice, and turned 
on him, laughing. 

“You are as dull as ink,” she cried, shaking her 
head, “and when we give a party, I foresee you’ll 
stare, and never speak. Mother says you are too 
manly a man to be a companion to your wife, and 
we shan’t ‘do everything together,’ as some dear 
molly-coddling couples boast they do, to neglected 
women such as I shall be !” 

He rose to her attack, as she intended him to do, 
and was not over pleased at an interruption when 
a maid brought the letters from a midday post. 

“Don’t read now, Valerie.” 

“But I must, David. There’s one from mother, 
and it is sure to want an answer. It’s on trousseau 
business, always trousseau business. You little 
know how hard you have worked us both.” 

The letter proved on business indeed. Uncle 
Archibald was dead. The dead man’s shoes were 
empty, and Mr. Beauchamp’s long-deferred for- 
tune was his at last. The extent of the inheritance 
was not mentioned, but it was enough to send 
Valerie’s mother into the seventh heaven of de- 
light. 

“I feel now that the only regret I have in the 
world,” she wrote in her exultation, “is your mar- 


104 


Flower and Thorn 


riage. Even before this good news came, you 
knowhow I felt about it all. If one had had any idea 
of what good luck was in store for us, there need 
have been no sort of anxiety about your immediate 
future. I do think a will, as soon as it is made, 
should be public property. In that case Eric could 
have forestalled what he wanted, and we should 
never have had to consider expense as we have 
done. Eric does not tell me exactly how the poor 
old man divided his money, but he is quite content 
with what he has got. We are moving into the 
Cecil to-night. I feel a girl again. As long as we 
can we must enjoy ourselves together, mustn’t we? 
etc., etc., etc. ” 

I do not think it ever struck David that the Beau- 
champs did not like the match. They had never 
heard all the tongues at work at Valerie’s expense 
as he had heard them. They had no “giftie gi’en” 
them to see with the eye with which others saw 
Miss Talbot. He had been told tales; he knew of 
the desertion, of the wearing of the green and 
white, of all the pricks of social failure, which had 
come their daughter’s way. 

He was humble, because he was in love, but he 
was not over humble, except with Valerie. 

He little guessed that Mrs. Beauchamp thought 


Flower and Thorn 105 

it no shame to urge Valerie to reconsider her en- 
gagement, that it was suggested that she should 
postpone the wedding, even if she could not be at 
present induced to break the entanglement alto- 
gether. 

Valerie never seemed to understand hints, and, 
when her mother spoke out, she laughed, as though 
the whole idea was a joke. 

When her mother grew vehement, and there 
was no possibility of laughing, then she spoke 
soberly, and to the point. 

“J-TL-T spell the ugliest word in our language, 
mother.” 

“Not so ugly as others you may learn in time.” 

“Too ugly for me to spell, mother.” And she 
tossed up her head, and closed her lips and frowned. 

Valerie was not strait-laced, but she had some 
elementary ideas of what was ugly and what was 
not. 

Though she had had a discreditable number of 
suitors in her time, an engagement was a different 
matter altogether. 

There was a strain of her grandmother’s Puritan 
blood in her, perhaps. Anyway, she knew that 
David had come too close not to stand towards her 
in a relationship that was serious, permanent. It 


io6 


Flower and Thorn 


was against hi? coat that she had elected to rest her 
conspicuous but maidenly head. She had given 
free kisses to that very frieze shoulder; she had 
planned out her future life with him. No man 
could do more for her than he had done. He had 
given her all he had. It was their mutual misfor- 
tune that all his worldly goods were so limited. 

Valerie had been reared to consider admiration 
the aim of life, but a husband a necessity of exist- 
ence. The husband was the necessary drawback 
of a free hand; he was a mere appendage, tolerated 
because he could be squeezed of all those things 
pertaining to the happiness of his wife. It seemed 
odd that David, who was an agreeable lover, must 
by the turn of fate turn into a husband. 

And the day came when he did so turn. 

Valerie was too pale a bride to do her lovely 
gown justice. Contrary to all expectations, she 
was nervous, she trembled, her voice was in- 
audible, and when she walked down the aisle with 
her steadfast-eyed, erect, proud husband, her 
cheeks were wet with tears. 

It was what is popularly called a gay wedding; a 
long string of bridesmaids, guests galore, flowers 
and music and presents. Everything but the bride 
was festive. 


Flower and Thorn 107 

The bride’s mother was calm and dry-eyed. She 
could not shed tears; she felt that she could never 
cry again now that Uncle Archibald was dead, and 
they could “do things properly.” 

With such a divine bonnet on her head, and such 
a brocade trailing at her back, a daughter’s wed- 
ding was not a thing to weep about. 

“Of course it is a bad match,” she said to the 
many friends who had gathered around her, “but 
he is dear Valerie’s choice. She might, of course, 
have married anyone. With her attractions 
nothing would have surprised me. But she had no 
ambition. I believe Captain Guthrie is a smart 
officer, and thought very well of in the army, but 
there is little scope for prosperity in his profes- 
sion.” 

People laughed in their sleeves, over and above 
smiles and congratulations. Pouf! Valerie had 
done all she could to marry Mr. Wetheral, and she 
had failed. Every soul knew that, and they were 
not likely to forget it. The matrons could aflford 
to be good-natured now that the match was made 
that laid Valerie upon a plain deal matrimonial 
shelf, well out of the way. 

Valerie “went off” in a white gown, with a white 
hat that was an artful and expensive effort after 


io8 


Flower and Thorn 


simplicity, that quite took the husband in, and 
which he admired in the ignorant, uncultured way 
which amused her. 

“You look like a school-girl in your early teens 
to-day,” he told her tenderly. “How do you do it? 
In church you were such a swell I was half afraid of 
you, and then you cried. It was the first time I 
have ever seen you cry since Dowells’ farm. What 
was it, Valerie?” 

“It was all manner of things. I am not sure it 
wasn’t your cousin Jane. She is so matter-of-fact. 
She sat down last night; she told me all about the 
villa and the maids. I felt ignorant, and stupid, 
and depressed. When at last you did come, she 
got hold of you, and talked to you sensibly, as if 
she were another man. I looked at you, and you 
took no notice, and I said to myself, quoting that 
horrid play we saw together, ‘I lost my lover, for — 
I married him.’ ” 

Then Captain Guthrie swore boldly that she had 
lost nothing, and would never lose what she wished 
to keep. 

On that June day the oath seemed true enough, 
and that Valerie would reign for ever. For 
this proud gentleman would kneel humbly at her 
feet, and worship dutifully at her shrine, and would 


Flower and Thorn 


109 


live prodigally on a smile, or starve on a frown, 
and exist for her at a very high pressure of ardent 
devotion. 

In his case there would be no shade of change 
such as overtook less constant loVers. Her throne 
was established for ever. She would not be ex- 
pected to step down, and to lend a hand in the hard 
work of the work-a-day world, into contact with 
which this royal lady had wandered. 

A happy couple ! Of course the Guthries would 
be a happy couple. 

An angel with wings and a kneeling figure, what 
attitude could fit, with more seemly grace, into 
villa existence than this? 

Valerie could play her assigned part with no 
effort. David’s was his own choice. He could 
have nothing on earth to grumble at in the posture 
he had eternally assumed. 


CHAPTER VII. 


The sunshine, the delicious air, 

The fragrance of the flowers were there. 

Captain Guthrie was lunching alone. It was 
a hot summer day, and he had come in from duty 
tired and hungry, in a sort of mood which would 
have lent itself to soothing easily, and which was 
also as easily prone to be irritated. 

He had stridden up his villa garden. His front 
door stood open. He had entered the little hall, 
and had called his wife. 

“Valerie! Valerie!” 

No one had answered. He had opened the door 
of the pretty drawing-room. It was scented and 
gay with flowers, cosy with low, deep seats and 
downy cushions; a most effectively-arranged spot, 
and one upon which Mrs. Guthrie spent time, 
thought, and money, but which she had, at this 
juncture, deserted. He knew the look of this sanc- 
tum; he saw it had on its war-paint. It was ready 
for eyes not his; Valerie was expecting some one. 
The trimness of the chintz, the freshness of the 


Flower and Thorn 


1 1 1 


roses, the neatness — everything spoke of Valerie’s 
usual habit of life, “people coming.” 

He pulled the bell, and waited a weary while for 
the answer to his summons. 

“Where is Mrs. Guthrie, Rose?” 

“Mrs. Guthrie is lunching at the Manor. Mrs. 
Brook came this morning, but she will be back to 
tea, sir. She is expecting some people. They are 
going to the Club later; it’s the Club day.” 

“Bring up my lunch. Rose.” 

“It is on the table, sir.” 

Indeed it was on the table, and in this over- 
whelming heat had already been there somewhat 
too long. The cold beef had been on the table 
upon Sunday and upon Monday already. To-day 
was Tuesday. 

Captain Guthrie cast an eye upon it. 

“Take away the beef. Rose, and bury it; it is 
ripe for burial. Bring me the cheese.” 

“Won’t you have some sweet, sir? There is a 
jelly.” 

“Bring me some cheese. There are no biscuits 
in this tin. Take it away and fill it.” 

Rose looked sympathetic. 

“Mrs. Guthrie was to order the biscuits this 
morning, sir. They have not come.” 


I 12 


Flower and Thorn 


She discreetly withdrew, leaving her master to 
the loaf and the gorgonzola, and his own acute re- 
flection. The lilies in the half-dozen vases amongst 
the starvation of the luncheon-table were very 
beautiful, very beautifully arranged, and very 
strongly scented. 

A verandah sheltered the French window of the 
dining-room, which opened upon the garden, and 
the air blew in less hot from the shade. Captain 
Guthrie ate, and as he cooled down physically he 
became likewise mentally cooler. 

His bachelor days were long over; he had been 
^married for over three years. Three years ago last 
month he had married a wife. It was wonderful to 
think how soon he had got used to his good for- 
tune — how soon he had grown accustomed to the 
bliss of Valerie’s constant presence, of Valerie in his 
home, of Valerie opposite to him in her chair, of 
Valerie’s step on the stairs, of Valerie’s ways and 
looks and voice. 

God bless her, though blessing had been far from 
him some minutes back, the commingled scents of 
lily and gorgonzola being singularly irritating. 
Pansies for remembrance. There was a bed of 
these modest flowers on the lawn within his sight. 
Heartsease for remembrance. Now and again 


Flower and Thorn 


ill 

David did throw his mind back, and remember the 
old heartsease days, just to stretch the matrimonial 
shoe when it pinched him. 

He was quite sane now, and on his feet. It was 
inevitable that the three years would have got him 
up from his knees and set him in a more natural 
posture. If, in one sense of that somewhat sickly 
word, he was no longer Valerie’s lover, she found 
nothing in him to grumble at as a husband. 

He was reliable, kind, considerate. With some 
subtle, undefined sense of self-congratulation she 
was happy in her tiny house. Of course they were 
very poor, but the fact did not inconvenience her at 
all. She always seemed to get what she wanted, 
but her expenditure was never absolutely rash. Her 
trousseau she had had to rearrange; fashions 
changed — she could not always be seen in the same 
frocks. Rechauffes cost something, they were not 
cheap. 

And Mrs. Guthrie was seen a good deal. She 
was sociable and popular; she had many friends at 
Leigh, and round about Leigh. Men liked her 
husband; a good shot, a straight rider, a simple, 
kind-hearted fellow such as Captain Guthrie was 
welcome everywhere. 

And the Guthries went everywhere, and did 


Flower and Thorn 


111 

everything, David falling in with his wife’s views 
up to a certain point at any rate. Sometimes he 
had qualms about expenses, but Valerie managed, 
or, as he candidly told her, mismanaged, the house- 
keeping on his allowance. Her mother augmented 
her daughter’s dress allowance now and again by 
a sudden big and welcome cheque. 

When, two years back, the boy was born, David 
had suggested letting the stable, but, as Valerie 
pointed out, the expenses of hire would be prodig- 
ious, and as the horse and half the man’s wages 
were provided, it would be cheapest to go on as be- 
fore, so that sacrifice to comfort was not thought 
essential. 

Cousin Jane had found Davy’s nurse, and had set 
Mrs. Guthrie’s nursery on the smooth wheels on 
which it economically ran. The boy was a healthy 
youngster, who grew in wisdom and knowledge, 
and in size and strength, without worrying any 
one. Valerie took the credit for the robust child, 
which should rightly have been divided between 
Providence and Jane Mallam, and her husband was 
ready to believe that it was Valerie’s cleverness that 
kept the doctor out of the house, and Davy as rosy 
as a young cottager. 

It was well for Captain Guthrie that his wife’s 


Flower and Thorn 1 1 5 

catering did not include tobacco, for he was more 
sure of his pipe than of a meal. He got into his 
deck-chair on the verandah presently, and puffed 
awc-y, with his newspaper in his hand, and the big 
pansy bed, with its velvet-like eyes staring up at 
the sun beyond him, feeling as though his lunch 
had been a satisfactory repast enough. 

There were no secrets in this thin-walled villa. 
He could hear the hum of kitchen chat, and the 
fuss cf the nursery departure for its afternoon con- 
stitutonal. 

As his boy passed down the passage David called 
him, and, keeping him for company, encouraged 
him to climb in the verandah, patting his head, and 
watching him with fondly-foolish eyes. Sandy the 
second had been a riddle till just lately. In a ner- 
vous, ignorant way his father had loved the child. 
Now be was growing more at home with the stal- 
wart, handsome boy, who bore Valerie’s dark eyes 
and fair hair, and was a son to be proud of. 

Whm the bustle of Sandy’s departure was over, 
the peace of the afternoon was invaded by a long, 
soft ring at the door-bell, a decisive, but gentle, 
ring, which might have told its tale to a more ob- 
servart ear than that of the bell’s master. 

Captain Guthrie heard the front door bell ring 


ii6 Flower and Thorn 

complacently. It rang a great deal, but usually con- 
cerned Valerie alone. She liked all the people that 
came to see her; as long as they left him in peace 
they were welcome to come. But now the bell had 
rung on his account, worse luck; rustling petti- 
coats were audible behind him; he heard himself 
greeted by name. 

“Oh, it’s only you, Jane. That’s all right. Can 
you bring out a chair? There is no room to pass, 
but it’s decently shady and cool here this time of 
day.” 

Only Jane; she fitted in anywhere, she ruffled no 
one, he was always glad to see her. Her comfort- 
able smile and wholesome face were good ‘;n his 
eyes. Jane was not hard to please; she expected 
little, was interested in everything, making David’s 
interests specially her own ; she ignored no ore. All 
the domestic virtues were hers; her capacities, ex- 
cept for the essential capacity of dressing well and 
looking fair, were deep and wide. Her menus were 
at her fingers’ ends; she forgot nothing. Her 
breakfasts for variety and beverage were hard to 
beat. Her health was superb, her temper sublime. 
Mrs. Mallam was not emotional, her feelings were 
not get-at-able, she never gave herself away. In 
her youth she had had a blunt tongue. It was clear 


Flower and Thorn 117 

still, but it was smooth. There was nothing acute 
about her; she could blend with all sorts and condi- 
tions of men. 

Jane was always the same. You knew where to 
find her, she never blew hot and cold, and she al- 
ways wore the same appearance. She did not age 
or flag — look plain one day, handsome the next. 
If you wanted her, she was there; if you neglected 
her, if you left her alone, she did not seem to notice 
your defection; she never took offence. 

Whether this sort of comfortable indifference 
was due to fortitude, philosophy, or toughness of 
hide, did not matter. It was a convenient faculty. 
Every one liked Mrs. Mallam. 

David was most partial to her. She was an ally, 
an aid, a constant help to him in many a small way 
of his life. 

She was as sensible as a man, but possessed all 
womanly lore. In more than one household di- 
lemma David had sought Jane’s advice, and, all 
primed with her wisdom, had saved Valerie many 
a worry. David was hungry for his wife’s peace 
of mind, for her happiness. Jane did not take these 
things to heart. She did not get blue shadows un- 
der her eyes, and sit and brood as Valerie would 
have done, when David heard scandals about his 


8 


Flower and Thorn 


kitchen and stable. Valerie only worried; Jane 
acted. She was not afraid to speak out in the 
kitchen. Valerie was afraid, and her own incom- 
petence acted and re-acted upon her. 

Jane had time for everything. She was never 
hustled or bustled in this life of hurry, but then 
she had no children. One had been born to her 
six years ago, a girl who had lived eight months. 
She never mentioned it, never alluded in any way 
to her loss. After a decent period of mourning, she 
was again to be seen about, not altered a whit by a 
sorrow such as sometimes metamorphoses the 
character, health, even life itself, of the bereaved. 

Mr. Mallam was a recluse. When he was not 
busy in his profession, he dabbled in science, and, 
beyond giving an occasional lecture of the Earth, 
Air, Fire, and Water species, did nothing to im- 
press his identity upon his little corner of the world. 
His wife quoted him occasionally in conversation, 
otherwise his existence dropped out of his friends’ 
memories. 

“David, how lazy,” said his cousin, taking the 
chair far off so as not to interfere with his ease. 
“You have had lunch, you haven’t changed. Never 
mind, you look your best as you are.” 

“Have you seen Valerie?” 


Flower and Thorn 


9 


“I met Valerie this morning, and she asked me 
to meet the people who are having tea here before 
we go to the golf ground. There is a cricket match 
at the Manor, and she wanted to stay there till the 
last moment, and was afraid that some one might 
turn up before she got home.” 

“There is a ring now.” 

“None of the tea people could have come at this 
hour. I came early; I wanted to see Sandy, and 
Sandy has gone out. I met him. Isn’t it rather a 
hot sun for the little chap, David? And your road 
leading to Leigh is like a furnace. Nurse had to go 
into the town for some messages, otherwise the 
lanes are so much cooler. You can get shade 
there.” 

“Valerie likes him to be out all day. Some one 
told her that children do better who are always out. 
I don’t suppose she thought of the sun — it has only 
got hot the last few days. Ah, that ring was the 
post. Yes, Rosa, give me that letter. By Jove! it’s 
from old Beauchamp; he doesn’t often treat me to 
this. I hope my mother-in-law isn’t ill or anything. 
Valerie is so keen about the Barstow ball ; it would 
be a great disappointment if she is wanted in town. 
You know they send for Val if Mrs. Beauchamp 
has an attack of asthma. She doesn’t grumble; she 


20 


Flower and Thorn 


likes an excuse to get to London. May I read this, 
Jane?” 

Jane nodded, and sat there enjoying the heat like 
a cat purring at the fireside. No one knew better 
than Mrs. Mallam that her back was round, her 
waist flat, and her neck short. In her youth she 
had mourned these deficiencies. At her age they 
were no longer drawbacks, but advantages. 

No one was jealous of Jane. She might walk in 
gardens where good-looking women might not 
look over walls. There was a freedom, a safeguard, 
a balancing quality in plainness which added to the 
comfort of her life. For a plain woman the sex 
question has lost much of the vague terrors with 
which certain people love to surround it. Her sex 
is not for ever thrust upon her notice. 

Jane sat, admiring the pansies, averting her face 
from her cousin when she heard his smothered 
ejaculation of something like consternation over 
the precious document. 

There is a recurrent terror to some unfortunates 
over the arrival of the penny-post from which they 
can never free themselves. But the lives in the one- 
brick villa had been alike independent of hope or 
dread at the approach of H. M. S. of the Post 
Office. Jane was no one. I mean it was as natural 


Flower and Thorn 


I 21 


to him to worry her with any worry that had be- 
fallen him, as it was to save Valerie from discom- 
fort of mind. 

“Here’s a nice job,” he said, fingering the letter 
and frowning. “Old Beauchamp is broke, Jane, 
stony broke. I am to send him a cheque, a mighty 
big one too, and Valerie is not to know. A pretty 
sort of mess he’s made of it, by his own showing. 
He has fooled away his money on the Turf, and 
some one now has to pay the piper, so he’s chosen 
me, because I’m so deucedly well off, I suppose. 
Here, Jane, do read it, I know it’s safe with you. 
Can you help me? The Lord knows what I am 
to do.” 

Mrs. Mallam looked infectiously grave over the 
news. Without wasting words she read the prof- 
fered letter, which ran as follows : — 


“ Club, 

“Pall Mall. 

“Dear David, 

“I am in a bit of a hole, and the truth is I 
don’t know where to turn for five hundred pounds. 
Can you let me have it? I will send you an I O U, 
and return it shortly, if I can. I had an infernally 
bad week at Ascot, and the money I came into from 


I 22 


Flower and Thorn 


my uncle was cut down a lot by death duty, and 
never amounted to more than twenty-five thousand 
pounds, all told — no great riches, after all. Lon- 
don is an expensive place to live in, and my wife has 
no idea of the value of money, though she would 
hound me off to some God-forsaken hole to econo- 
mise if she knew about this business, where I could 
not call my soul my own. 

“You will thus understand why I keep any diffi- 
culty I have to myself, and prefer my own way of 
settlement. I don’t want Valerie to hear anything 
about this business. You know what women’s 
tongues are. They keep no secrets but their own. 

“Yours ever, 

“Eric Beauchamp. 
“The debt is a debt of honour.” 

“Well, Jane.” 

Mrs. Mallam’s face seldom expressed anything 
save a uniform good-humour. David read nothing 
there, though her blue eyes were fixed upon him. 
“Well, Jane, what am I to do?”^ 

“Do nothing. Say ‘No.’ ” 

“Very awkward to say ‘No.’ ” 

“Yes, but the awkwardness would be over when 


Flower and Thorn 


123 


you had said it. Say ‘Yes/ and the awkwardness 
would have no end.” 

“Poor Beauchamp must be worried to death.” 

“Temporarily worried, no doubt, but you would 
be permanently worried. Your money is settled on 
your wife. You would have to raise the five hun- 
dred pounds. You would never get it back.” 

“The debt is a debt of honour, Jane.” 

“Not your honour, David.” 

“It amounts to almost the same thing. Va- 
lerie ” he broke off, his head was not business- 

like. 

Jane tapped her foot on the ground. 

“Pouf !” said she, “don’t be hyper-sensitive, 
David, you can’t afford it. Mr. Beauchamp has 
not come to the end of his tether; he is only afraid 
of being made to economise if his wife knows. You 
have asked me what I say, and I say, emphatically, 
refuse. Tell Valerie all about it, and refuse.” 

Captain Guthrie stared. Women and men don’t 
think alike on such subjects as were now under dis- 
cussion. He would not worry his wife, neither 
could he make up his mind to refuse off-hand in 
this way. 

“Write to him, David. Tell him the truth; he 
knows your circumstances. Urge him to be cau- 


124 


Flower and Thorn 


tious; the end of his tether will come some day if 
he isn’t pulled up, and that will be serious for you 
all. It would not be fair on your boy to let him 
have this money. You can’t afford the luxury of 
giving it, David.” 

“That’s true. So you want me to send him ad- 
vice instead of the money, poor old chap. As you 
say, one doesn’t see one’s way to the end of this. It 
is not going to end here, and I don’t want Valerie 
to be bothered.” 

“You certainly can’t allow her to be beggared by 
the gentleman.” 

“You are as hard as nails, Jane.” 

“Only sometimes, David. I know I could let 
you have the money. My mother-in-law left it to 
me and Wilfred lets me do what I like with it. 
There it is, all ready for anyone, for you yourself if 
you wanted it, but not for a case like this. I don’t 
feel qualms about so-called debts of honour.” 

“Women don’t. You have your strong points, 
but this is not one of them. If I have got to say 
‘No,’ I had better go and do it, and get the beastly 
job over.” 

Jane nodded. It was useless to appeal to her; 
she had hardened her heart. Captain Guthrie went 


Flower and Thorn 


125 


off to write his letter, and Jane sat on in the veran- 
dah and thought. 

She saw monetary rocks ahead for her cousin; 
she knew how such rocks would impede the easy 
life in the little house. She had a housekeeper’s 
hard-headed contempt for Valerie’s domestic inca- 
pacities. The hugger-mugger regime of the orna- 
mental villa and its ornamental mistress distressed 
her. She saw the melting of the sixpences and 
shillings, and nothing comfortable to show for 
them, and her Scotch soul was vexed within her. 
She had not kept her lineless face smooth by the 
meeting of troubles halfway. 

Only once in her life had she lain awake o’ nights 
full of life’s possibilities. Those day-dreams were 
laid at rest under the daisies; she would never look 
forward any more. 

She was not one of those women to whom no 
calamity comes for the first time, so amply does 
their imagination supply them with dress rehearsals 
of every ill that may befall our mortal flesh. One 
death would suffice her; she was not of the stuff 
to suffer a thousand. 

Her cousin did not take life so easily. He came 
back from his letter-writing looking glum, and 


Flower and Thorn 


1 26 

went off unsociably early to his club, to drown his 
worries in whist and evening editions. 

Jane waited to meet Valerie’s expected guests. 
Valerie was late, uncourteously late, and it took 
tact and diplomacy to prevent anyone realising 
that such was the fact, but Jane accomplished it, 
and Valerie, when she did arrive, was so lively and 
gracious, and moreover looked so radiantly good- 
looking, that Jane, who, like most ugly people, 
worshipped good looks, had not the heart to scold 
her. 

“How late you were, Valerie,” she said, when the 
golf was over, and the two hostesses sat down to 
rest in the villa drawing-room. “I had almost given 
you up.” 

“I very nearly did not come at all,” with an air 
of contrition. “I was enjoying myself. The 
Wetherals were there; I went down to the Ameri- 
can garden with them. I had never seen him since 
I married, and I enjoyed a chat about old times. 
She is pretty, and she was looking her best, pasted 
into her gown. Heigh-ho! I wish I could afford 
a little more such paste, Jane, but I have got a new 
gown for the Barrows’ ball, pretty enough; I must 
show it to you. A mysterious garment such as 


Flower and Thorn i 27 

Madame Malmaison loves. She is a genius, that 
woman.” 

“Yes, and she knows it,” said Jane, drily. 

“Yes, she quite knows her value. But I have 
been good; this is the first dress I have had from 
her since I married. You are going to the Bar- 
rows’, of course, Jane. It is going to be a good 
ball; a splendid ball. I do hope it won’t be quite 
so hot next week. One does not care to dance with 
the thermometer at ninety.” 

“I have to walk home, Valerie; I must go. We 
dine at eight.” 

“Our hours are all convertible,” said Valerie. 
“Cook is good-natured. That is one advantage of 
bad servants, they are always good-natured. David 
flares up occasionally, soldiers are punctually- 
minded, and then we are regular for a week; that 
is all that happens. Life isn’t long enough to fuss 
oneself into clock-work, is it, Jane?” 

“It lengthens life to fuss it into clock-work. A 
day with no clock-work in it gallops by. Clock- 
work suits me, for the daily round has a way of 
furnishing me with even more than I need to ask. 
Good-bye, Valerie.” 

“Are you coming to-morrow to the Kings’ pic- 
nic?” 


128 


Flower and Thorn 


“Yes.” 

“Then we shall meet. By the way, how are you 
going?” 

“Biking.” 

“I had hoped you were driving,, and that you 
could take me. David wants the cart.” 

“How selfish of him ! Good-bye.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“One not tired with life’s long day, but glad 
r the freshness of the morning.” 

“Your temper is going off, David. There is 
getting to be a married tone about it. It is deterior- 
ating day by day,” said Valerie, confidentially. 

She was standing by the pansy bed, stooping 
over the flowers, and not looking towards the per- 
son whom she addressed. In fact, she was picking 
off withered heads of her blossoms, in an idle, des- 
ultory way that, nevertheless, accomplished work, 
as though some purpose really lay behind the slow 
movement of her white hands. 

The person addressed was smoking, seated on 
the verandah, with a newspaper in his hand and his 
eyes on his wife. The pair were on excellent terms. 
Their relationship was of the free and easy style; 
there was no check anywhere on the pleasantness 
of their companionship — the man unconsciously 
gave, and the woman as unconsciously took, har- 
mony resulting as the comfortable consequence of 
this arrangement. 


130 


Flower and Thorn 


There was no pecking either by cock or hen at 
the villa. The hen, had she been inclined to peck, 
would have had to subdue her inclination. David 
gave, but not under compulsion. His will was 
masterly, his strength great; but these attributes 
of his lay dormant; they were not called into do- 
mestic action. There was no combat of power be- 
tween Captain and Mrs. Guthrie. He wanted his 
wife to be happy. She was actively happy, and he 
was content. 

“What’s wrong with my temper?” mildly. 

“You won’t come to the Kings’ picnic at Wa- 
tersbrook.” 

“My dear Val, I have work to do at Poole to- 
day.” 

“When we were married, your work never used 
to take you away when I wanted you.” She spoke 
softly, but her smile was malicious. “I want you, 
and I want your cart to-day.” 

“I am very sorry.” 

“That’s no good to me. Your sorrow won’t take 
me to Watersbrook.” 

“I am afraid you will have to bike,” calmly. 

“Oh, the flints, and the hills, and the heat, 
David.” 


“Stay at home,” with decision. 


Flower and Thorn i 3 1 

“No — no — no. It’s the very day for a picnic. I 
must go. Sir, do you recollect when you walked 
to Poole to see my train pass, in the pre-matri- 
monial days? You shake your head; you have for- 
gotten all about those days, of course. Do you 
know how to lose a lover, David? Marry him. It 
is a cure.” She shrugged her shoulders petulantly. 
“You would not walk half a mile to see me now. 
You have changed, yes, you have changed.” 

“Don’t attack me, Valerie. I know you don’t 
mean it, but I don’t quite like it.” 

“Naturally you don’t like it. No more do I.” 

“Are you joking, or are you serious?” trying-to 
look into her averted face. 

“You are an accurate, serious Scotchman; think 
it over. Have you changed, or have you not?” 

A wry smile passed over David’s face. 

“If I have changed, I suppose it is because one 
can’t live comfortably at fever heat. I will allow 
that perhaps it is different, but I don’t like you any 
the less, Val.” 

“I told you so,” with a sigh. 

“I don’t quarrel with matrimony, do you, Val?” 

“Sometimes, a — little,” sweetly. 

“Don’t quarrel with me, will you?” 

“How can I help being cross?” with an air of 


132 Flower and Thorn 

gentle solicitude. “You have coolly said that I am 
doomed to live without a lover till I die.” 

“Or until I die, Val. As a widow you may get 
another chance.” 

Then Valerie, upon one of the rare occasions 
when she was sentimental, turned her brown eyes 
upon her husband, and, crossing the strip of lawn 
intervening between them, held up her face to his. 

“When you die,” she said quickly — “don’t talk 
of it, David. I want to live for ever. This life of 
ours is good enough for me. I” — she stretched up 
one hand towards the upper storey of her home, 
and waved it to the little smiling face that she 
caught sight of at the window overhead — “I love 
my life, every single day of it.” 

“The butcher has called for orders, ’m,” Rose 
broke into the dialogue without concern, “and he’s 
in a hurry; he can’t wait no longer.” 

This mundane summons sobered Mrs. Guthrie, 
and, gathering up her muslin skirts in her hand, 
she followed the cook to the larder, meek as Moses. 

“I’d forgotten to order dinner,” she confessed, 
with a faint smile, as she passed her husband. He 
shook his head at her, as if he meant it. Nothing 
but the tradesmen’s weekly bills were regular at 
the villa. 


Flower and Thorn 


133 


Had he changed towards this fascinating inmate 
of his house? She had said so, and he had owned 
to it. If she had looked into his heart of hearts 
that day, she would not have grumbled at what she 
found there. 

As soon as Valerie was out of sight, down went 
the morning paper. Captain Guthrie, shaking his 
ashes from his pipe, withdrew from the verandah, 
and disappeared. 

Dinner was ordered, the gardening over. Valerie 
had written some notes, read some portion of a 
ladies’ paper and had time to grow tired of her 
own society before he reappeared. 

“You went off in such a hurry,” she said, with a 
faintly reproachful air, when he came at length and 
rejoined her. 

“Yes, I had something to arrange before I went 
to the barracks. You are a spoilt woman. You 
need not complain that you have no lover still. I 
went for you. Dawson will take the things I want 
to Poole. I will bike, and you shall have the cart. 
Does that please your Majesty?” 

It pleased her exactly. Her thanks were eager. 
Biking would do her husband good; he always 
wanted exercise; it was as necessary to him as 
friends were to her. How thankful she was that 


134 


Flower and Thorn 


she had married David; how well they pulled to- 
gether — at least, how well he pulled for both of 
them. No woman of her acquaintance had such a 
peaceable husband as hers. 

She had forgotten the ambitious dreams of her 
girlhood till the meeting with the Wetherals yes- 
terday had somewhat revived them. Why had Mr. 
Wetheral left her? It was odd. Yesterday he had 
been very glad to see her, very eager to talk to her. 
He had never been more flatteringly friendly in the 
old days. People would say she had refused him 
for David’s sake! Would to heaven she had done 
so. What a proud position for the Guthries that 
would be! Pouf! They all did very well as they 
were. 

David knew the truth — he had an overweening 
contempt for subterfuge of all kinds — and David 
was content. 

She had been civil to Mr. Wetheral. She hardly 
understood why. He had behaved badly, badly, 
badly — he knew it as well as she knew it — and yet 
he had greeted her cordially and had not left her 
side. Perhaps, in those bitter days of old, someone 
had made mischief, perhaps some pressure had 
been put upon him; perhaps the badness of his be- 
haviour had not been voluntary. Her vanity — and 


Flower and Thorn 


135 


who is the mortal who has no amour-propre ? — 
which had been bruised unbearably by him, now 
called out to be reinstated in its proud position, 
and suggested any cause but failure for its humilia- 
tion. 

The Wetherals had just taken a house near 
Leigh. They had been living in London since their 
marriage. His health had suffered; he had been 
ordered to the country. 

Report said that Lady Alice had a temper, and 
that her husband suffered from it. She was an out- 
of-door, robust, high-spirited girl; he was none of 
these things. Valerie remembered that she herself 
had not altogether relished the thought of a life 
spent within hail of the small-headed, high-nosed, 
well-bred young man, that she had quarrelled in 
private with the seemingly propitious fates. Now 
that there was no chance of seeing or of hearing too 
much of him, she no longer objected to his conver- 
sation, or to his profile. 

David was a silent man, eminently manly in 
mind, and therefore difficult to talk to. Mr. Weth- 
eral prattled on as easily as a woman; he was inter- 
ested in feminine subjects such as David was slow 
to understand, or deaf to hear. 

Poor David! As Saladin trotted fast through 


136 


Flower and Thorn 


the warm air on the way to the Watersbrook pic- 
nic, Valerie thought of him biking over the rough 
hilly road to Poole, and blessed him lightly in her 
mind. 

Some form of pride had prompted her civility to 
Mr. Wetheral. She had come back from her meet- 
ing with him, and had told her husband about it. 
Her confidences to David sometimes slipped 
through one ear and out at the other, as is the 
wont of the absent marital ear, but David had lis- 
tened attentively to these disclosures. 

“Don’t overdo it, Val. You were not good 
enough to marry.” 

“Perhaps — there was some misunderstanding.” 

“Don’t you make any mistake, my lady. When 
a man wants to marry a woman, he asks her to do 
so. No misunderstandings, nothing on earth pre- 
vents his speaking out.” 

“All men are not like you,” with a significant 
smile. 

“In that way they are.” 

“Don’t be magnificent. It was only by some 
slip, some mere coincidence, that you asked me 
yourself.” 

“So you say.” 

“Was it not for pity?” 


Flower and Thorn 


137 


“Never mind what it was for; I try to make you 
a decent husband.” 

“Is it such an effort?” 

“Sometimes it is,” unflinchingly. 

“The Wetherals are going to the Kings’ picnic.” 

“Are they? I am not consumed with jealousy; 
they are quite welcome to be there. The paths of 
Dives and Lazarus won’t clash too much for com- 
fort down here.” 

Then David became once more immersed in his 
Sportsman, leaving Valerie to her reflections. 

The Kings’ picnic was held in one of the most 
beautiful parts of a beautiful county. 

In a hollow between two hills lay a deep wooded 
valley, through which flowed a fast, wide stream, a 
stream so broad that here and there it rose almost 
to the dignity of a river. Boulders and stones 
strewing its bed broke the water into noisy action 
on its way ; midstream it hurled itself in a foaming, 
angry torrent against the obstacles in its path, but 
gurgled calmly and softly beneath its deep, reedy 
banks. 

In this picturesque neighbourhood, a score of 
light-hearted people picnicked happily and inno- 
cently enough. The picnic was much like its fel- 
lows, except that its uniformity was destroyed by 


>38 


Flower and Thorn 


an accident — an accident of a most unalarming, 
though of an annoying nature. 

Mrs. Guthrie had finished tea, and had elected, 
in company with her old friend Mr. Wetheral, to 
explore the banks of the brook, where meadow- 
sweet and pink mallow, and large, vividly-blue for- 
get-me-nots, and reeds and rushes, and fern grew 
in tangles from season to season. And it was here 
that the annoying incident took place, for Mrs. 
Guthrie dropped her parasol into the water, and 
Mr. Wetheral, who was the only man within hail, 
hurried down stream and climbed out gallantly 
upon a boulder, to stay the doomed parasol on its 
downward career. 

“Come back, for Heaven’s sake!” cried Valerie; 
he turned and his foot slipped, and he himself, fol- 
lowing the fate of the parasol, rolled down into 
the water. Fortunately the stream was gentle, the 
water warm. In a few strokes he reached the land, 
and laid the retrieved parasol at its owner’s feet. 

Mr. Wetheral did not lose his temper, and it was 
a little hard on him that both his wife and Mrs. 
Guthrie should do so. Mr. Wetheral had put Mrs. 
Guthrie into an awkward position. Any other man 
in the county could have drenched himself on her 
account, but she did not like Mr. Wetheral’s doing 


Flower and Thorn 


39 


this. Why could not he have let the parasol go? 
It was ruined, anyway, without his making a fool of 
himself. What a tiresome, clumsy person he was. 
She would tell David about it; he would not like 
the story. She did not like it herself. She stood, 
her head held very high, looking at her parasol. 
Lady Alice was coldly uncivil, and Valerie froze at 
her tone. 

Mrs. Mallam, from a little way down the 
stream, watched the scene. Then she walked up 
and joined her cousin’s wife, who for once in a way 
looked as though she wanted social support. Mr. 
Wetheral had an empresse manner for all women- 
kind, and was given to the making of speeches, for 
which just now Valerie had no patience. 

“They will dry you at the farm in the lane,” said 
Mrs. Mallam. “It is not a hundred yards off, and 
I know the people. The woman would do every- 
thing she could for you, I am sure.” 

“Mr. Wetheral catches cold if the dew falls,” said 
his wife, as though this weakness of his was by 
no means a pleasing one, “so it is a little rash to 
stand dripping here under the trees. I should go 
at once, Rupert.” 

And Rupert went, this reminder of his delicacy 
setting his teeth chattering, and filling him with 


140 


Flower and Thorn 


gloomy forebodings. Jane piloted him to the farm, 
and, whilst he was drying out of sight, Valerie, to 
whom Lady Alice had been frankly rude, ordered 
her cart and drove home. Her parasol had been 
ruined, and she wished Mr. Wetheral at the bottom 
of the river. Valerie told herself that she pitied any 
man who had married such a cat. Lady Alice was 
a child now. What would her talons be like in ten 
years’ time? Talons are the only feminine attribute 
that age cannot wither, that the years perfect. Poor 
Mr. Wetheral! 

David had returned when his wife reached home, 
and he went out to meet her, helping her down 
from her perch with the pleasant greeting that she 
took as a matter of course, accepting it as the usual 
matrimonial manner. 

She made a bee line for the most easy of the 
drawing-room easy-chairs, and sank into it, as 
though she had been the person who had traversed 
the dusty, stony road on a rough bike that hot 
summer day. She took off her hat, and smoothed 
back the careful arrangement of conspicuous hair 
from her forehead. She did not mind David; he 
did not object to her unadorned. 

“Pm tired, David,” looking at him with large pa- 
thetic eyes. 


Flower and Thorn 


ill 

“Are you? What have you been doing?” 

“The usual things. '^The Platts, Simcoes, Por- 
ters, and Tregarnons were there, and some of the 
officers. The place is exquisite — such ferns and 
moss, and a wild sort of mountain stream. The 
picnic was cheery enough, but I let my parasol, 
that good lace one, fall into the water.” 

“Have you lost it?” 

“It is ruined.” 

“Never mind,” suavely, “I will get you another 
one, 

“Another one. It cost fifteen pounds, David — 
real lace, don’t you see.” 

“Poor Valerie.” 

“What idiot do you think got it out?” gloomily. 

“What who?” 

“What clumsy idiot do you think tried to get it 
out, and fell in himself and got "soaking wet, and 
did no good?” 

“Well, you don’t seem grateful. He was a gal- 
lant idiot, at any rate.” 

“How I hate gallant men. The word is enough; 
it is expressive of a nasty surface manner.” 

“Who was this squire of dames of yours?” 

“It was — Mr. Wetheral.” 

“Poor man. What did his wife do?” 


142 


Flower and Thorn 


“She was grande dame, and put me in my place. 
David, I shan’t go and see her. I shall not call on 
her.” 

“I don’t suppose she will mind, one way or the 
other.” 

“I could make her mind,” said Val, looking 
mechante, and speaking softly. 

David looked puzzled and grave. Then he got 
up. 

“Come to the nursery and see the boy. He is 
in his cot, and asking for you. Come and get rid 
of the cobwebs with him.” 

Val put her untidy head against her husband’s 
shoulder. 

“It makes me feel wicked when I am snubbed,” 
she said, with a sudden change of tone. 

“You are not snubbed at home. I don’t snub 
you, and your boy clamours for you. Listen to 
him.” 

Mrs. Guthrie’s cobwebs soon yielded to a nur- 
sery welcome. Davy climbed from his cot into 
her arms, peachy cheeks, soft curls, warm limbs, 
and smiles were hers. David stood and watched 
his dear belongings, playing in that understandable 
mother-and-child way which is pleasant to watch, 
and which made his heart hot within him. He cast 


Flower and Thorn 


ill 

no backward thoughts, no more did she. They did 
not quarrel with domestic life at the villa, it suited 
them. 

Some days later the parasol episode was dramat- 
ically revived at the villa breakfast table. 

Valerie was later to descend than David; he was 
halfway through the discussion of his eggs and tea 
before she appeared. An unexpected parcel lay upon 
her chair, over which she commented with much 
interest before she opened it. 

“David,” she said, “here is a huge parcel. What 
can it be? Mother has not sent me a present for 
months. Of course it’s from her.” Then she cut 
the string, and the papers rustled. “David, David, 
look here. What luck. Exactly what I wanted. A 
parasol, and such a parasol. Mother has the best 
taste in the world, and she is so generous. It is 
point d’Alen<;on, so exquisitely fine. Mother will 
end her days in the workhouse; I always tell her 
so.” Suddenly Mrs. Guthrie’s face changed, a flat- 
ness fell upon it. For a moment she held her tongue, 
and her husband looked up at her to see what had 
gone wrong. 

“Ah, how annoying,” she said, blankly, “ the 
thing is not from mother. Do you hear, David; 
mother did not send me this parasol. Here is a note 


144 


Flower and Thorn 


by post. Mr. Wetheral sent it to me. Most unnec- 
essary, I think, but he seems to fancy it was his duty 
to do it. Read this.” 

She tossed ^ letter across the table to her husband, 
which he read slowly, and in silence. 

“19, Cadogan Square. 

“Dear Mrs. Guthrie (it ran), 

“I hope you will no longer mourn for the 
parasol which I was so clumsy as to ruin last week. 
I saw this in a window to-day, and it struck me that 
it might replace yours exactly, or nearly so. I hope 
it will reach you safely. 

“Yours cordially, 

“Rupert Wetheral.” 

David made no comment. A moment later he got 
up and rang the bell. 

“What did you ring for, David?” 

“Fresh marmalade; this is fermented.” 

The maid brought what he ordered, and was re- 
treating when he spoke to her. 

“One moment. Rose.” He got up, and fetched 
the opened package from the chair by his wife. 
“ Here is a present for you,” he said, handing Rose 


Flower and Thorn 


145 


the whole Wetheral bundle — box and tissue paper, 
and parasol and delicate trappings. 

“It’s very hot weather. If you haven’t a parasol, 
you must want one. If you have a parasol, sell this 
or give it away. It is yours. Take it with you.” 

Rose was as staggered as her mistress by this sud- 
den action of the master of the house, but some 
women know when to hold their tongues. Rose was 
an unimaginative person of few words. With some 
brief thanks she bore her trophy off to the kitchen, 
and they heard her cry : 

“Look, cook ! Look at the present I’ve had given 
me ! It’s a parachute fit for a countess.” 

There was a heavy, somewhat electrical silence in 
the dining-room for a full minute after the departure 
of Rose and her parcel. Then David lifted his eyes. 
They were keener even than usual, and he fixed them 
upon his wife. 

“You could not return it, Valerie. Rose is 
pleased. Don’t” — he went over to her side — “be 
angry with me.” 

“It was very unnecessary of him, of course, 
David.” 

“It was so unnecessary as to be annoying. It 
wasn’t your fault, but you will know how to prevent 
such a thing happening again, Val. Wetheral can’t 


146 


Flower and Thorn 


go straight. No Wetheral can. Keep out of his 
road.” 

He spoke with authority; his orders were short 
and stern. Never before had he put his marital foot 
down. Valerie, woman-like, did not object to the 
just pressure of it. 

“That parasol is most unsuitable to Rose,” she 
said, demurely. “People will think she stole it.” 

“Who cares what they think?” 

“You never do care for public opinion.” 

“One parasol is just like another.” 

“Is it ?” with expression. 

“Look here, darling, you married a pauper, but 
you know you did it with your eyes open. You can 
have any mortal thing which I can afford to give 
you, but nothing more. God knows, I am sorry it 
is so little.” 

“Mr. Wetheral has made you angry, David. 
Don’t be angry, he isn’t worth it. I am glad you 
minded” — here she went over to his side, and with 
gentle solicitude laid her hand upon his arm. “I 
should not like you so much if you had not minded.” 

“After what happened between you and Weth- 
eral, it is bad taste of him to send any present of any 
sort. I’m not particularly jealous, but I draw a 
pretty fast line for you, Valerie.” He was smiling 


Flower and Thorn 


H7 

now, and her hand was in his. “I remember when 
Norris in my regiment married that fiddle-headed 
wife of his, and some one of us said something un- 
complimentary about her before the ceremony, how 
coolly he took it. ‘Don’t make any mistake, old 
chap,’ said he. ‘I am marrying my wife for myself. 
I don’t want a wife for you fellows to flirt with.’ 
I didn’t marry a fiddle-headed woman, I married 
you, but I am just of poor old Norris’s way of think- 
mg. 

Valerie laughed, blushing too, and the parasol 
episode ended peacefully enough in the villa. 


CHAPTER IX. 


“ ’Twere easy told 

That some grow wise, and some grow cold, 

And all feel time and trouble : 

If life an empty bubble be, 

How sad are those who will not see 
A rainbow 'in the puddle ! ” 

If life were often as simple a process as was the 
early life of the Guthries in the villa at Leigh, Jere- 
miah, and all his host of modern plagiarists, would 
not have proved popular authors with mankind; 
their lamentations would not have hit the public 
taste. 

In the height of the summer Valerie had warmed 
her husband’s heart by a declaration of her content 
with existence. By the autumn, such is the incon- 
stancy of fate, her views had changed. 

“This life of ours is good enough for me,” she 
had said. And David had rejoiced over her words, 
and had stored them in his mind as worth hoarding. 

There is a cynical old saying, that on Poverty 
coming in at the door. Love takes his flight through 
the window. 

Hitherto the villa poverty had been of the com- 
fortable sort, to which Love has no objection — a 


Flower and Thorn 


49 


poverty that can afford to feel the cold, and which 
does not suffer from any worry in connection with 
dinner, except that of selection. 

Uncomfortable poverty, which eats warily,^ and 
cannot afford to feel the cold, may have its bitter- 
ness, but its clutch does not paralyse, deaden and 
destroy happiness, as does an insufficiency at the 
Bank to pay the bills. The strain of an endeavour 
to indulge expensive tastes on an inadequate income 
scares Love into using his wings. Alas ! for the pot- 
ter’s vessels which elect to swim the stream in 
company with the elegant brass pots ! 

Mrs. Guthrie, without knowing whither the swim 
would lead, chose the brass pots for comrades, and, 
with a husband who was a Scotchman, and had a 
loathing of debt, she insensibly spent more money 
than she had got, or was, as it unfortunately hap- 
pened for her, likely to get. She did not sin with 
her eyes open — she suddenly found she was in debt, 
and decided that it would be better to let things 
slide till something, in the shape of a long-expected 
cheque from her generous mother, should turn up. 
Meanwhile a whispering sheaf of bills had, little by 
little, accumulated in her bureau drawer. She locked 
them away, but later some of their unreasonable 
owners clamoured for payment. 


150 


Flower and Thorn 


A well-known London firm grew insistent, and 
then Mrs. Guthrie silenced them from out of her 
housekeeping purse. The butcher and baker were 
pleasant people to deal with. When one of those 
great cheques came from Mrs. Beauchamp, Valerie 
would get straight again. 

Every day — day after day, week after week — she 
waited, growing anxious and concerned as time 
passed and the cheque never came. David must not 
be worried; he was ridiculous about bills; he was 
bourgeois in his prompt payment. His wife could 
not keep up her reputation for beauty upon nothing 
at all ; beauty wanted trappings, or it lost its status. 
A shoal of intimate friends cannot be in and out of 
the house constantly on nothing at all. The boy’s 
frills and silks and laces cost money. Would the 
cheque never come? 

Then, upon one black morning, Mrs. Beauchamp 
wrote that she was in great trouble — that Valerie 
must come to her. So Valerie went, and when she 
reached the charming house in Walton Place, she 
heard a tale of woe that was sobering in the 
extreme. 

No cheques from Mrs. Beauchamp would be 
forthcoming any more. Valerie never thought of 
this part of the tragedy whilst she was listening to 


Flower and Thorn 


111 

the outpouring of her parent’s sorrows, for she 
found that the inherited money of her stepfather 
had been exhausted, and she was too full of their 
wretchedness to remember her own difficulty. There 
was nothing to show for Uncle Archibald’s legacy at 
all. No one concerned in the smash blamed anyone 
but the lawyer, who was the only person, Valerie 
thought, who seemed able to understand or to ar- 
range anything. 

Finally, after some most agitating weeks, the 
Beauchamps found themselves on the Continent, 
with a very small income, but amongst congenial 
companions, with the same way of taking life as they 
did, who were bent on enjoying themselves to the 
extent of their capabilities. The life was better than 
they had anticipated it would be. Birds of a feather 
flock cheerily together; tragedy is only for the unit 
in an alien flock. 

Meanwhile Valerie, depressed by the Beauchamps’ 
fate, came back to her home. She found herself 
valuing the unobtrusive care, the strong, untiring 
service of her husband, as an almost new find, and 
yet she was irritable with the knowledge that some- 
thing must be done about those perplexing bills of 
hers. Something vague that would pay them with- 
out annoying David. She wanted to stand well with 


152 


Flower and Thorn 


him; she had a wholesome respect for David’s in- 
tegrity. She was half in love, she told herself, with 
a laugh, with her own husband. 

Surely something would turn up to help her out 
of her quandary. When the Barrows spent a thou- 
sand pounds on roses for their ball-room, a just 
Providence would not permit the ruin of happiness 
for a mere hundred and fifty pounds. 

Alas, alas ! The books of the butcher and baker 
grew longer and longer, puffing out and swelling 
with the fatality of unchecked half-yearly accounts, 
and the sheaf of bills still whispered and rustled in 
her bureau drawer. 

Mrs. Guthrie had been reared with those people 
who laugh at their liabilities, frame their receipts, 
and make a joke of debt; but she began to find no 
joke in it at all. She began to be haunted by those 
blue possessions of hers. Far from amusing were 
those tradesmen’s letters that she found no difficulty 
in opening, under her unsuspicious husband’s nose, 
without his observance. 

She took to dreaming about them. She could not 
enjoy herself at home or anywhere else. Vague 
visions of backing horses, of gambling in stocks 
and shares, of borrowing money at the bank, of 


Flower and Thorn 


153 


writing a novel, or of taking out a patent, filled her 
mind. 

She was sure, later, that David had changed in 
his love for her. He was getting tired of her; she 
missed something from his manner, and tormented 
herself by her imaginings. 

In truth she herself had grown so difficult, so 
moody and glum, so capricious, that David held him- 
self proudly aloof, hoping that this phase of villa 
life might shortly change for the better, and putting 
all the blame charitably upon Valerie’s sympathy for 
her own people’s misfortunes. 

Feminine nerves, which Val, though he had not 
remembered it, possessed — her blessed nerves 
pleaded her cause. 

Upon one sunny morning in the following spring, 
when east wind, a bad night, and a tradesman’s let- 
ter had all combined to drive Val mad, it happened 
that the Guthries’ son and heir was disporting him- 
self amongst the beds of sprouting bulbs upon the 
lawn, in charge of his mother, who, looking pale and 
chilly, stood absently fulfilling her sheep-dog morn- 
ing duties upon the gravel walk. 

A few yards off her husband was playing with 
Nip, the nursery dog. His face had caught some- 
thing of his wife’s expression, though his eyes 


154 


Flower and Thorn 


brightened, alighting upon the inconsequent gam- 
bols of the boy, who frolicked from father to mother, 
bubbling over with the lust of the eye, the lust of the 
flesh, and the pride of life. 

Sandy was no saint. The parental was a dis- 
tinctly limited monarchy, and now, in a sudden 
spasm of evil, the three-year-old baby rushed upon 
the forbidden ground of a flower-bed, and tugged off 
two hot handfuls of temptingly vivid blue scilla 
heads before his mother and father saw what mis- 
chief he was about. 

Mrs. Guthrie loved her scilla bed. She had toiled 
in her Holland spring garden. She had planted the 
thousand unpaid-for bulbs that she loved. The little 
miscreant, he had ruined her scillas. She was angry 
now, furiously angry, with the hot anger that a back- 
ground of anxiety breeds. She ran after her boy, 
and, catching him by the tunic, she cuffed his curly 
head until his pitiful cries echoed far and wide 
through the Guthrie Elysium. 

Captain Guthrie ended the scene of violence. He 
came close, and he looked at his heated wife, and 
she stayed her hand. Then he picked up the 
sobbing child and carried him into the house. 
Naughty boy, and yet his shrieks went to his 
mother’s very heart. Valerie chose to be offended 


Flower and Thorn 


55 


both with son and father. She did not choose to 
follow them, but mooned on in the garden. She 
hung over her scilla bed, trying to nurse her wrath 
and keep it warm at the sight of the ravished stalks. 
When at last she went back into the house, she 
found it empty. Sandy had gone for his morning 
walk, and his father had departed to the barracks. 

David had left the villa without wishing her good- 
bye. It was the first time, she told herself, that he 
had done so in anger since their marriage. Four 
years is a long time ; habit has become second nature 
in four years. She did not like to break habits ; her 
cheeks were wet. 

Things were going wrong. People who speak 
with authority know that matrimony is an impossi- 
ble sort of institution. Going wrong? Of course 
things would go wrong. It was really creditable, 
she assured herself, that until lately things had 
gone fairly right. She had read a magazine article, 
which described matrimony as a tangle of absurd 
vows, a network of unworkable machinery, a con- 
trivance patched together by a feeble priesthood. A 
happy married couple was as rare as a black rose. 

The Guthrie paradise had been a fool’s one. 
David, too, was beginning to find that out for him- 
self. She saw the knowledge dawning in his face. 


Flower and Thorn 


156 

Alas ! Her temper was getting violent ; she was be- 
coming a virago. Long ago, in a thoughtful mood, 
as a mere bride, she had had a pansy bed set on 
the lawn. Pansies she had chosen for remembrance. 
Every year the heartsease had been renewed, and she 
had been vaguely glad to see them flourish in her 
soil. She might be relieved to remember that she 
had beaten her small boy over the scillas ; she had not 
disgraced herself over her heartsease. 

Children were certain cares, doubtful blessings. 

When poverty came in at the door love flew from 
the window. The depression after anger is uncon- 
querable. Valerie sank into the blues. She told 
herself that there was no reason why her case should 
be an exception to accepted rules of existence. 
David and she were going to be a wretched pair, 
a cat and dog couple. The Guthries had certainly 
no dramatic troubles that she could remember. But 
trivial irritations, domestic cares, want of confi- 
dence undermine happiness, and she had introduced 
these destructive rifts into the villa lute. 

She had intended to go into the town — she had 
shopping to do. She was one of those expensive 
women who shop for shopping’s sake — ^but she had 
not energy even to spend and buy. 

Valerie’s mood was dangerous; she was courting 


Flower and Thorn 


157 


disaster, running out to meet it. In this frame of 
mind she went to her bureau, and, dragging out her 
drawer of bills and books, began to turn them over 
and over. For the first time she took a pencil up, 
and essayed counting on her fingers, and muttering 
in an amateurish endeavour to add up the total of 
her liabilities. 

She must do something, and get this gnawing 
worry over. Somehow — anyhow — the money 
should be paid. Great fortunes were to be made on 
the stage. It was a rich profession amongst such ar- 
tistes at least as allow their incomes to be published. 

Mrs. Mallam was on intimate terms with her 
cousins, the Guthries. She was on those disas- 
trously intimate terms that ignore the formality of 
the front door-bell — terms that should be unpermis- 
sible, under all circumstances, to the Briton whose 
home is his castle. 

On some friendly mission, Jane had found oppor- 
tunity that morning of making her way to the villa 
to see Valerie, and she boldly turned the handle of 
the front door upon her arrival, making a noiseless 
way into the Guthrie fortress, as was her constant 
wont. 

The drawing-room door stood ajar. She pushed 
it open and walked in. 


158 Flower and Thorn 

Mrs. Mallam, who was not emotional, and whose 
skin was not finely sensitive, felt at this moment 
that door-bells should be respected, and that she 
would in future announce her arrival through the 
hallowed face of the lion in the porch. 

For she caught her cousin’s wife at a disadvan- 
tage. She found Valerie in an abandoned attitude 
of grief, her face covered with tears, and an out- 
spread sheaf of bills lying before her on the bureau. 
She had trapped Valerie red-handed. 

Jane had always guessed at the existence of villa 
bills, and here they were in unmistakable array be- 
fore her eyes. Alas ! poor David. 

Although these two matrons were on terms of in- 
timate friendship, although they spent a great deal 
of time in each other’s society, circumstance, not 
mutual preference, had contrived their friendship. 

Jane knew all about Valerie — her past, her pres- 
ent, her income, her method of spending it, her 
household difficulties. She knew all about the Guth- 
ries, father and son, all about the daily villa life. 

Now and again Valerie felt this conversance, this 
intimacy, as a restraint. She felt the burden of a 
critical mind in her home. David never criticised, 
but she was not so sure of David’s cousin. Famil- 
iarity, she remembered, breeds contempt. 


Flower and Thorn 


159 


As a rule Valerie accepted Jane as a kind, cheerful 
person, whom it was a little difficult to know well — 
a person who gave an ear to all and her confidence 
to none. Perhaps unconsciously Valerie resented 
her reserve; it is not a fair bargain to give confi- 
dence, and to receive nothing of the sort in return. 

Mrs. Mallam’s entry on that glowing morning 
was a distinctly bad moment for both people con- 
cerned. Valerie got up. She was not in a mood to 
pretend anything; besides, she felt nothing could be 
gained by mincing matters. The sun shone on her 
wet eyes, disfigured cheeks, and upon the bills. She 
never doubted but that Jane took in the whole situa- 
tion at a glance. 

“Good morning, Jane,” she said, steadying her 
voice. “You have come at an unlucky moment; 
you have found me out. I was actually moved to 
tears over my accounts. They are more hopeless 
than usual.” 

“Poor thing,” said Jane, but her voice was cold. 

“Can you sympathise? I should fancy you had 
a mathematical head, and never muddled anything.” 

“I believe I rather enjoy the weekly settlements, 
but then my cook is a treasure.” 

Valerie winced. Here was an opportunity to pre- 
tend that the depression arose from a lost threepenny 


i6o 


Flower and Thorn 


bit, or an undiscovered sundry or an extrava- 
gant grocer’s book. But Valerie was never an adept 
at pretence; she was a fairly transparent person. 
Jane went on quite gently: 

“Can’t I help you, Val? Two heads are better 
than one. I might be some good, if you can explain 
what has gone wrong.” 

Of course she could explain. It would be an 
enormous relief to tell someone. David had reliance 
on his cousin’s opinion. Indeed, Valerie had been 
jealous occasionally of Jane’s long head. Jane was 
the only creature who could be told. She never 
gossiped ; she never said ill-natured things of erring 
neighbours. She had her points, had Jane. 

She might put Valerie on a winning horse; she 
might place the unwritten novel; she might think 
of some quick way of wiping out this hateful money 
trouble. 

Mrs. Guthrie took two or three paces up and down 
the floor, and made up her mind to make a clean 
breast to the intruder. 

“I am in debt, Jane,” she said, speaking very 
soberly, and wringing her hands together. 

“That is dreadful for you, Valerie.” 

“It is dreadful; I never thought anything could 
be so dreadful. I don’t know what I am to do. 


Flower and Thorn 


i6i 


You see I bought things, only trifles, little trifles, 
from time to time, but they ran up into big sums 
when they were added together. I was expect- 
ing a cheque from my mother, and I was not worried 
about it. Then their smash came, and of course I 
got no cheque. Poor mother, she would give away 
her head if she could. With no cheque, and no 
chance of getting extra money, and with all these 
bills, I can’t imagine what is to be done. It has 
been going on for weeks and months. I can’t think 
what I am to do.” 

Jane sat and thought, Valerie watching her face. 
Nothing was to be read there but the usual invinci- 
ble good-humour. 

“Have you told David?” 

“He would be more wretched than I am. He has 
a worse horror of bills than any old maid, Jane.” 

“I know he has.” 

“I am” — this time with a mighty effort after the 
clean breast — “six months behind-hand with my 
housekeeping. I used some of that allowance to get 
rid of one or two people who were bothering for 
their money. I haven’t paid any tradesman here 
since the summer.” 

“You have been' robbing Peter to pay Paul.” 

“That is what it comes to.” 


i 62 


Flower and Thorn 


“I should tell David.” 

Valerie was silent. She sat in thought, very 
mournful and depressed. 

“I should tell David ; it is nothing if you tell him. 
If he knew it, and not from you, it would be a pity.” 

Jane interpreted her cousin’s mind to his own 
wife. Valerie wished she had held her tongue. Tell 
David. Anyone could have thought of that. It was 
simple as A B C. 

“He won’t mind the money, Valerie. He would 
mind the ‘not knowing.’ ” 

“Not mind the money? Not mind a hundred and 
fifty pounds to pay when we are as poor as church 
mice? We are overdrawn at the bank till the divi- 
dends come in. Of course I could tell David, but 
what I wish to do is to pay myself — to make some 
money, and to pay.” 

Jane spoke shortly this time. 

“There are thousands of women who want to 
make money — anyhow. It is hard enough to make 
twopence — somehow. I should tell David.” 

Valerie began to cram back the bills into the 
drawer with unsteady fingers. To tell David — oh, 
the relief and comfort of it, had she but the moral 
courage to do so. It was not wholly to save David’s 
feelings that she had kept her secret; she did not 


Flower and Thorn 


163 


want to fall in his estimation, she did not want to 
risk anything. She had told herself all manner of 
lies, all sorts of false reasons why David should not 
be told. 

But now she would tell him. Together they would 
adorn the stage, or back the horse, or thrill the public 
with a story. Together they would pay the bills. 
These should be the last bills that should ever curse 
the villa post-box, or desecrate Mrs. Guthrie’s bu- 
reau drawer. Valerie would make her own clothes, 
and David’s, sooner than “enter” the merest baga- 
telle in a tradesman’s book ! 

She was visibly cheering up with her decision. 
Jane’s decisive words had given her the ’fillip that 
she morally required. Action is an absolute neces- 
sity to anguish of mind, and Valerie, that morning, 
had worried herself into a feverish condition of 
misery. 

“I know you are right,” she said, generously 
enough, “and I will tell David. I will try to 
tell David. It is not as easy as it sounds. I have 
thought of a great many other ways out of this 
tight hole, but I think your way, Jane, is best.” 

Now, to have your advice accepted, and to be 
thanked for a gratis gift of opinion, is soothing to 
the mind. Jane was gratified. To be saviour in 


164 


Flower and Thorn 


an alien household is to be in a proud position. 
Though Jane was burning with pity for her cousin, 
she was glad to have heard the worst, and to have 
done what she could. 

“Money melts,” said Jane, going over to the win- 
dow, and staring out upon the scillas. “If you once 
forget it, it melts and melts till it is gone. One wants 
to keep f s. d. eternally in the foreground of one’s 
mind, to preserve it in one’s pocket.” 

Valerie agreed humbly. Money did indeed seem 
an almost omnipotent power, either for good or evil. 
Hitherto she had not considered this form of the 
question. She had, in the long ago days of girlhood, 
intended to make a good match — not for love of 
money, but because it was a difficult thing to do, 
and things just out of reach are always attractive. 
Hitherto she had missed nothing in her life with 
David. The smoothly flowing, domestic, villa exist- 
ence had had nothing dramatic about its happiness ; 
she would hardly realise its depth and strength until 
it had gone out of reach. 

Tears were in her eyes again, whilst unimpres- 
sionable Mrs. Mallam stood charitably looking out 
of the window. 


CHAPTER X. 


“Take joy home 

And make a place in thy great heart for her, 

And give her time to grow, and cherish her; 

Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee. 

When thou art working in the furrows.” 

An inevitable fate wars against the keeping of 
moral resolutions such as are popularly designated 
“good intentions.” 

It seems that a little spiteful cherub sits up aloft, 
and makes it his business to fight them. All the 
world knows how, in an elfish, eerie manner, he bat- 
tles against, and finally worsts, the plans of their 
owners. Who can forbear a gibe or jeer at the 
notable possessor of a good intention ? 

Valerie’s good resolutions were to be no exception 
to the rule. They soothed her conscience as is their 
dangerous wont, they stroked her mentally smooth. 
She went so far as to plan out where and how David 
should be told. Whilst Jane Mallam stayed on with 
her, and they had talked of other things, absent 
Valerie was preparing her confession to her hus- 
band. 


i66 


Flower and Thorn 


She could not anticipate that fate would inter- 
vene, and drive all mundane thought of money mat- 
ters from her mind. She could not prophesy that 
a mere worry was going to be dwarfed by an over- 
whelming fear of irreparable loss — that she was go- 
ing to be led face to face with something like despair 
— that life was to be shown her in a new aspect of 
wretched possibilities. 

Across the feverish uneasiness of Valerie,’s guilty 
mind there had been shooting tender thoughts of 
her poor little miscreant, Sandy. She wanted to kiss 
the peachy cheeks that she had cuffed, to press the 
dewy mouth. Both he and his father had left her 
in anger. She was not often in the wrong with 
these indulgent members of her household. She 
wanted them to come back to her that she might 
make her peace with them, but they did not come. 

Jane stayed on late, but she was not asked to 
luncheon, and at length she made a protracted fare- 
well and went away. Still Valerie’s husband and 
Valerie’s son delayed their return. 

Valerie, who had a justifiable reliance on the in- 
fluences of appearance, as soon as her guest departed 
had gone up to her room with some vague intention 
of bringing David’s mind back to gentler days 
by the putting on of purple and fine linen, but her 


Flower and Thorn 


167 


heart misgave her, and she fell to brooding. Soon 
the bustle of arrival disturbed her; she heard her 
husband’s voice. For a moment she shrank back; 
she had to tell David, and she was afraid. Wresting 
herself free from a feeling she abhorred, she went 
out upon the landing. Afraid of David? Heaven 
knew she had no need to be afraid. For if the fever- 
ish biting passion of old days had passed, as it inev- 
itably must do, surely there abode in her husband 
the calm, deep, protecting, faithful love of a strong 
man for his own. 

He was on the staircase now, coming up himself 
to meet her. In her preoccupation she did not for a 
moment notice the drawn whiteness of his face. He 
was at her side before she spoke. He had an arm 
round her. 

Angry with her? No, it was not anger, but there 
was something wrong. Even before he spoke, she 
began to know of some impending trouble that was 
to hurt her. 

“Val, darling, you are not to be frightened. You 
are to believe what I tell you. You know I would 
not keep anything back.” 

“What is the matter?” 

“Someone is hurt.” 

“Is it Sandy?” 


i68 


Flower and Thorn 


“Yes. His mail-cart has been knocked over by a 
bicycle. For a little while he was stunned, but he 
is better now. The doctor is with him downstairs. 
They are going to bring him up here to bed. He 
is to be kept quiet.” 

Then David broke into some tender, bracing, per- 
sonal comfort for Sandy’s mother. “You go, sweet, 
into the nursery, and get his cot ready. I must go 
down and help them. Don’t speak to him, Val, 
you understand, for a bit; he must be absolutely 
quiet.” 

Valerie nodded. She did not answer; she obeyed 
orders. She went softly on tiptoe to the nursery, 
shook the pillows, smoothed the mattress, pulled 
back the trappings from her boy’s cot. Toys were 
lying about ; the room was untidy. She set it softly 
in order, pulled down the blind, and drew across a 
curtain to exclude a strip of sunshine. 

An oppression, like a band of steel, was round 
her breast, a sick fear in her heart. 

She stood back in the shadow to let the little 
procession enter. Dr. Mellor was carrying Sandy; 
his tangled curly hair was resting on a pillow. With 
strange, dazed eyes he looked about him. 

Still Valerie stood motionless, and let this new 


Flower and Thorn 169 

authority in her nursery lay Sandy in his cot, and 
draw the coverlet over Sandy’s comely limbs. 

“Shut your eyes, my boy, and go to sleep again,” 
said the doctor, and Sandy obeyed, a dead silence 
falling heavily upon the room. 

No one broke it. Later on the doctor slipped 
away, beckoning to David to follow him, and Va- 
lerie was left to watch alone. Then she crept gently 
to the sleeper’s side, and stood with her eyes on his 
face. Soon David stole again to her right hand. 
She smiled wanly to greet him. Poor parents ! side 
by side with God’s great gift of love comes the deep 
curse of sin, the suffering dread of life’s uncer- 
tainty. 

Two days and nights the Guthrie tension lasted, 
and then, with bewilderingly rapid strides, their 
boy grew better. Nay, he was his romping, merry, 
rosy self again before his father and mother had 
left off quaking for him. How they gloated over 
his recovered strength, and laughed foolishly over 
his pranks and prattle but a few short evenings 
later. 

“You were really good, Val,” said her husband, 
thoughtfully. He was dragging his boy, who sat 
astride a donkey, slowly round the room, and the 
boy’s mother was looking on with soft eyes at the 


Flower and Thorn 


170 

performance. “You did not lose your head when 
you saw Sandy brought in. You were calmer than 
I was. You came out, Valerie, you know, as a bit 
of a heroine.” 

The heroine smiled, not ill pleased. 

“Pouf !” she said, “a heroine is not a natural per- 
son, but artful. Pm not heroic. Why, the very 
worst wild-beast mothers do their best for their 
wild-beast babies. It is only nature. You said 
‘keep quiet,’ so I was quiet.” 

“Very praiseworthy obedience,” said David, 
laughing from sheer light-heartedness. “I hope, 
Val, you will develop this new phase of character; 
it suits me nicely.” 

Valerie laughed too. 

“Run, daddy, run,” cried the boy, lashing at 
donkey and father indiscriminately. Sandy was 
taking advantage of his guardian’s access of tender 
devotion to extract much service at his hands, but 
David had had enough of the toil. 

“I’m worn out, old man. You must think of 
some less exhausting fun. I am going down to the 
club to recruit myself. I have not been near the 
place for a week. Good-bye, Val; have you any 
orders for me? No, nothing at all? What an un- 
usual thing.” 


Flower and Thorn 


171 


He went away very happy, happier than he had 
been of late, for the nursery storm had cleared the 
villa air. Valerie was herself again. Moods, 
vapours, uncertain humours, those disturbers of 
domestic peace, had left her. David told himself 
she had got over the effect of all the Beauchamp 
worries at last, and he rejoiced. 

He was finding his cap in the lobby, when Rose 
pounced upon him from the kitchen. 

“If you please, sir,” she said, “Mr. Manley would 
like to speak to you for a minute. He is in trouble, 
sir, or he would not have taken the liberty to worry 
you.” 

“Show him into the dining-room,” said David 
cheerily, so recently out of trouble himself as to 
have a kinship with Mr. Manley, the butcher, and 
not to be chary of sympathy. 

The interview was a long one, and when Mr. 
Manley finally left the dining-room, poor David 
looked as though he had taken Mr. Manley’s 
troubles upon his own stalwart shoulders. His 
boyish buoyancy had all gone. He was standing in 
the hall in a sort of bad dream, in a nightmare 
horror, when his cousin Jane entered, and con- 
fronted him face to face. She had a parcel in her 
hand, a parcel she had brought for the invalid. 


172 


Flower and Thorn 


She gave Sandy some present daily, and had in 
consequence got nearer to Valerie’s heart the last 
week than she had ever done before. 

Jane looked at David, and asked abruptly: 

“Isn’t he so well?” 

“Oh, hes all right,” with emphasis on the pro- 
noun. 

“Then what is wrong, David?” 

They looked into each other’s faces. Jane knew 
more about David than he had ever troubled him- 
self to learn about her. She laid down her rustling 
parcel, and backed dexterously into the little din- 
ing-room, he half-unconsciously following her. She 
was not a fastidiously-minded person; she did not 
object to “finding out” if she wished so to do, and 
could fulfil a good purpose in so doing. She 
wanted to help David. Ice can always be broken 
with sharp-pointed steel; it is not difficult to do if 
you know the way. 

“David, you remember what I told you about 
that money of mine? If you want it, it is there; 
you can have it.” 

“In heaven’s name, what do you mean?” 

“Just what I say. If you haven’t enough money 
just now, mine is doing nothing; you can have it.” 

“What makes you imagine that I want money?” 


Flower and Thorn 


173 


“Did not Valerie tell you that I knew?” 

“Knew what?” 

Jane was puzzled. 

“By your face, I thought you had been told.” 

“Told what?” 

Jane looked at him again. 

“Has not Valerie told you about her bills?” 

He shook his head; his eyes asked questions, 
though he was silent. Jane averted her eyes from 
his agitated face, and went on speaking. There 
was no more shrinking about her words than about 
her thoughts. She had grappled with her subject, 
mastered it, and now hurled it complete, a concrete 
mass of minute evidence, lumped into conclusion 
hard as granite, at David. 

“Do you know nothing?” 

“I know” — he reflected a minute — “something.” 

“Poor Valerie,” said his cousin. “I came in one 
day last week and found her in distress. She told 
me she was in debt — she missed her mother’s 
presents. She had had bills which she had always 
paid with Mrs. Beauchamp’s cheques when they 
came. When they did not come, she paid her bills 
with the housekeeping money. You understand 
how simply she got altogether wrong?” 


174 


Flower and Thorn 


“One moment, Jane. Did Valerie ask you to tell 
me all this?” 

“No, David. I advised her to tell you, and she 
said she would. It was on the day of Sandy’s ac- 
cident. I expect she put off telling you till he was 
better.” 

David’s eyes were less gloomy as Jane spoke. 

“She was going to tell me?” 

“Yes, yes, she had made up her mind to tell you. 
She was only afraid of worrying you. I am talking 
of it now, because I feel it is half my fault. You 
used to consult me, and I thought you two could 
manage in this house. But, David, I have changed 
my mind, I don’t think so now. It is the little 
trifles that mount up and up, and make it impos- 
sible to meet the ends of your income. I know, 
David, the strain of it all would worry you to death. 
You are not asking my advice now, you are abhor- 
ring me for talking. Ever since Valerie told me — 
dear Valerie, she is much too beautiful and too 
charming to have a sordid, penny-saving mind — 
ever since she told me I have been brooding and 
bothering myself about you. Very impertinent, eh, 
David? But you see you have taken me so much 
into your confidence that, perhaps, I feel I have a 
right to walk in uninvited.” 


Flower and Thorn 


175 


A possessor of confidence possesses a dangerous 
gift. Sensible, clear-headed women can be unbear- 
able company, the listener found. 

“Do you remember how we used to do all your 
accounts together before you married, David? I 
kept the papers. I have been going through them 
again. The boy makes more difference than I 
thought, and I know how money melts if one gets 
behind-hand at all. David, I am sure you cannot 
live as you are living now. You will have to make 
a change.” 

Some inarticulate sound from the hearer para- 
lysed Jane’s tongue for the moment, and her 
cousin spoke. 

“This is so newly sprung on me, Jane, that I 
would rather think it over before I talk of it, even 
to — you.” 

“All right, all right, I understand; but I wanted 
you to remember that my money is idle — ready for 
you, if you will have it. No, don’t thank me at all. 
Blood is thicker than water; we all know it. I 
won’t talk any more, you hate it. Be off to your 
club. I will go up to the boy.” 

David turned to the door, and there on the 
threshold, facing him with grave eyes, stood his 
wife. She was no actress, she was sincere; her face 


176 


Flower and Thorn 


betrayed her. The villa walls were thin; the door 
was ajar. Though Jane had lowered her voice, 
David’s voice had been loud, harshly loud. Valerie 
had overheard him. 

‘T came for Jane,” the intruder said, in a hard 
voice. “Sandy heard her talking, and he wanted 
her. He would not rest until I fetched her.” 

“I will go,” said Jane. With commendable alac- 
rity she left Valerie to her fate. 

They had had tiffs, this man and wife — lovers’ 
quarrels, and later disagreements a trifle less lover- 
like. Hitherto nothing had gone seriously wrong 
between them. They had fallen out, they knew not 
why, and the reconciliation had been prompt and 
pleasant enough. 

The case now was otherwise. Looking into each 
other’s eyes, with heavy hearts, they knew it. The 
change, which Jane had foretold as inevitable, was 
at hand. 

“If you had only told me,” he said, his voice as 
cold as ice. 

“David, I meant to have told you.” 

There was a pause, during which He seemed to 
weigh her words. Then he said slowly ; 

“How much do you owe? I have paid Manley. 


Flower and Thorn 


177 


I have given him a cheque for £30. He came to 
me just now for the money.” 

Valerie stood clasping and unclasping her hands. 

“Then Jane did not tell you,” she cried quickly. 
“I thought Jane had told you.” 

It is presumptuous of a sinner to ride any horse, 
much less a high one. Valerie was in the wrong. 
It is not a soothing position — a humble-pie diet does 
not digest so as to conduce to lowly sweetness. And 
Valerie’s wounds were fresh — she was raw — every- 
thing hurt. 

“It is no matter who told me — you did not,” he 
said, looking on the ground. “You told other peo- 
ple, but not me.” 

“It was not a voluntary confidence to Jane,” said 
the sinner, looking straight at David. “She came 
in here — one day; she walked straight in, and — 
found me. She had no right to tell you, none at all.” 

“It does not matter who told me,” he repeated 
harshly; “you did not. She saved you that. What 
do I owe? How much? To whom? We had bet- 
ter have it all out, clearly, between us now.” 

Valerie put her hand to her head in thought. 

“I can’t remember quite. I wrote it down. I’ll 
look.” 

He followed her into the drawing-room and 


178 


Flower and Thorn 


waited in silence, whilst she, with trembling hands, 
hunted amongst her papers, and, extracting a long 
sheet of accounts therefrom, read out huskily : 

“Two hundred and ten pounds, David. It comes 
to that I added the sums all up several times. I 
could not believe it was so much, but it is. It always 
came to the same amount.” 

“Show me the bills.” 

“Will you sit down here and look at them ?” 

So he took her place at her bureau, and, as she 
had so often done of late, there he sat with a sheaf 
of bills spread out before him. He was a long while 
at his work. His head was not much more com- 
mercial by nature than that of his wife. 

He looked up at her at last. 

“Is this all?” 

“Nearly all.” 

“What do you mean? What more are you keep- 
ing from me?” 

“Only a muslin blouse, David. It cost two guin- 
eas. The bill is upstairs; it came to-day. There 
is nothing more. David, don’t look at me like that. 
I — I know how wrong it has all been, as well as you 
know it. Even if you can never forgive me, I am 
glad you know. Glad.” 

He repeated the word “glad,” dropping his head 


Flower and Thorn 


179 


upon his hands. If she had only told him of her 
own free will, he could have taken it like a stoic. 
He was wounded to the quick by her having kept 
such a secret. His trust, the comfortable faith upon 
which their married life had flowed, was dried up 
like a potsherd. She had cut away the foundations 
of his daily life. 

“Would you fetch me that last bill, Valerie? I 
must get the whole sum down, and — pay it.” 

She went docilely in a moment. She was some 
time gone, and came back with swollen, but dry eyes ; 
he saw her face still quivering. 

“It is no good crying over spilt milk,” he said aus- 
terely, unsoftened. “The money has to be paid, 
and we must see that we don’t get into such a hole 
again. I have been forgetting Tm a poor man, and 
you have been forgetting I am an honest one, 
Valerie.” 

“For months, David” — wincing from his words — 
“I have tried to find out some way of making money. 
I thought I could, if I had time.” 

He did not seem to hear her. He was at the bills 
again. The silence might have been felt, it lay so 
heavy in the room. 

“Two hundred and twelve pounds,” he said. 


i8o Flower and Thorn 

slowly. “What money have you of your own just 
now ?” 

She brought her purse from her pocket, and 
spread out its meagre contents for his scrutiny. Her 
half-childish ingenuousness usually charmed him. 
He was not to be imposed on any more. Her frank- 
ness was mere trick of manner. She was not plead- 
ing extenuating circumstances ; she did not ex- 
cuse herself at all. He was grateful to her for this. 
He was trying not to say what he thought; he was 
trying to hold his tongue with a bridle. He knew 
they had got to go on living together, and to make 
the best of this devastating misfortune that had come 
upon them. 

“What can I do?” she asked at last. “How can 
I help you, David ?” 

“Jane will help me,” he answered, slowly. “I must 
accept her offer, and pay these bills with her money.” 

“No, no,” said Valerie, wringing her hands. “It 
is too much to owe — a woman.” 

“It is worse to owe tradesmen, who are working 
for their daily bread,” drily. “I can see no other 
way. We can pay Jane back by degrees.” 

Jealous of Jane? Was it possible that Valerie 
could be jealous of that wholesome woman with rosy 
cheeks, and a wide mouth? 


Flower and Thorn 


i8i 


A common-place, thick woman, with no bent for 
fashions, who wore ugly, ill-made clothes? Who 
had bad feet, and a not specially fine ankle. Useful ? 
Of course Jane was useful ; an unattractive woman’s 
salvation is to be useful. Jane knew her subjects — 
trains, distances, dates, sums, facts, politics were at 
her fingers’ ends ; she could cook, she talked sensibly 
like a man. 

And there was an air of comfort about Jane. A 
self-satisfaction that was aggressive. The woman 
was not conscious of her own deficiencies; she was 
self-reliant and natural. 

Alas, alas ! she had many a solid recommendation 
which David’s wife sadly lacked, and David’s wife 
knew it. It flashed upon her now. 

Personal attractiveness is nothing accounted of in 
the category of the domestic qualities which are es- 
sential to the forming of what is popularly called a 
“good wife.” 

Mrs. Guthrie’s self-esteem was not deeply-rooted ; 
it was not built upon the rock of conceit — it was 
rather founded on the sand of lover-like speeches 
and masculine approbation. 

Standing in her confessional before her stern-eyed 
judge, she was full of humility towards him. She 
forgot that he had once been upon his knees at her 


1 82 Flower and Thorn 

feet. As not unusually happens, the matrimonial 
tables had got turned. 

“David,” she said — there was a forlorn sort of 
dignity in her composure, in her acceptance of her 
position — “I do not think we need borrow this 
money.” 

“What other plan have you ?” 

“I might write — a book.” 

“Do you think anyone would read it? No, Va- 
lerie, we can’t pay this in some future cloudy way. 
It must be paid now/* 

She had sinned ; punishment followed crime. Al- 
ways, always, it follows crime. She looked out at 
her garden, then round about her home. 

Anything would be better, less wretched, than to 
use this superfluous money offered to him. 

David was watching her, reading her face. She 
pointed with a sweep of her hands to her environ- 
ments. 

“Let us sell our — things — our furniture, David, 
and leave the house, and go into lodgings, and be 
very careful. And — and I will try to save. Then we 
could pay, David, just by ourselves, we could pay.” 

Poor David covered his face with his hands. 

“I must think, Valerie,” he said. “We can’t break 
up our whole life in a moment. I can’t stand it.” 


Flower and Thorn 183 

He broke off, and got up abruptly. 

“I am dazed. I can’t clear my brain. I’ll go out.” 

Valerie watched him out into the lobby, and lis- 
tened to the click of the door behind him. Then 
she went back to the nursery. 

“Don’t talk, muvver. Cousin Jane is telling a 
’tory. Go on, please go on. Cousin Jane. Hush, 
muvver, don’t interrup’.” 

Valerie sat down and listened. Her boy’s yellow 
head nestled back against Jane’s clumsy shoulder, as 
though it were turned like a swan’s. 

Mrs. Guthrie had the assured, natural manner of 
a spoilt woman. She had lost that manner now. 
Perilously near tears, her pride resorted to artifice. 
She had invaded her nursery with head held high, 
and steady lips. 

“If you please, ’m,” said Rose, from the doorway, 
breaking into Cousin Jane’s story, “Mr. Weth- 
eral has called. I have shown him into the drawing- 
room.” 

The call lasted some time. David returned before 
the visitor had departed, and before Cousin Jane had 
finished adding yet another climax to rapacious little 
Sandy’s story. 

The master of the house came to see his boy, and 
to put a finis to fiction. 


84 


Flower and Thorn 


Cousin Jane and he talked of stern fact. David 
walked some of the way to Leigh with her, when 
at last she bade Sandy farewell. 

“I can never thank you enough, Jane,” said Cap- 
tain Guthrie to his cousin, when he left her. “It 
is most kind and good of you.” 

“Rubbish, David, you will pay me interest, and 
you’ll pay me back. It is unfriendly of you to insist 
on a lawyer, and unnecessary law; but I give in. 
Perhaps you are right — you generally are.” Then, 
lowering her voice, she added, “You know how 
sorry I am, deadly sorry for you — for you both.” 


CHAPTER XL 


*‘Ah! fools were we and blind — 

The worst we stored with utter toil. 

The best we left behind.” 

Even in the past days of peace Captain Guthrie 
had not always relished his dinner of herbs. 

Now that the villa herbs were not made palatable 
by peace, they were bitter in the teeth. 

Rigid economy set in at the Guthries’ with its 
usual severity. The cook left; Rose gave notice; 
nurse’s face grew long. The. master of the house 
spent his spare time at the club. The cart was sold. 
Valerie refused invitations. She had nothing to 
wear; she could get nowhere. Poverty began to 
pinch ; husband and wife alike ached beneath its grip. 

Mrs. Guthrie’s spirits waned. She got no pity. 
People said the Guthries had outrun the constable, 
and had had to pull in. It was no misfortune, but 
their own iniquitous fault. Mrs. Guthrie had 
dressed ridiculously well, and had lived as though 
her husband had lots of money. Poor fellow, it 
was all very hard on him. 


1 86 Flower and Thorn 

Jane Mallam said nothing; she merely looked on. 
Things had begun to go wrong at the villa. To 
what desperate straits in this difficult world that go- 
ing wrong might descend, who could tell? Little 
beginnings have gigantic finishes. 

Jane often went to see the Guthries, but, though 
Valerie was civil enough, she was not cordial. She 
talked fluently, as usual, but entirely upon surface 
subjects. She no longer sought for advice from 
Jane on matters domestic. 

She did not allude to her poverty. It was so con- 
stantly present to her mind nowadays that she could 
hardly help bringing it into her conversation. Of 
what the heart is full, the mouth speaketh, but she 
buried the subject with the sagacity of an ostrich. 
Jane could have been useful to her. Valerie wanted 
to understand those intricacies of management 
which make a shilling do its full quantum of work ; 
she was struggling to be domestic. She was putting 
her mind into the economics; she was beginning to 
buy in the cheap market, and to admire accomplish- 
ments which she had once despised. 

^‘Wild-beast mothers did their best for their wild- 
beast children.” This primitive instinct no doubt 
was hers. But was it for Sandy’s sake alone that 
she was metamorphosed? 


Flower and Thorn 


187 


Jane could have been useful to her, but Valerie 
would not be helped. Was not the debt to Jane too 
heavy to be borne already? Wert not the parings 
and scrapings, all the crop of wearing economies, 
instituted to lessen this debt? Tradesmen might 
legitimately wait, but Jane must be paid. Whatever 
the cost, Jane must be paid. 

Did not weeds overrun the pansy-bed, and choke 
the roses, because a gardener was a luxury, and Va- 
lerie had not the heart herself to take his place? 

There was not a drop of Palestine blood in Mrs. 
Guthrie. Bargains are often as pearls without price 
to the British matron. Dire necessity alone recom- 
mended a bargain as a bargain to Valerie. Whether 
it was merely honesty which made her feverishly 
anxious to repay the money to Jane, she did not stop 
to consider; she only knew that the debt weighed 
upon her intolerably. 

Valerie had had no wordy quarrel with her hus- 
band, but the old relationship had changed. Their 
free and easy intercourse was no more. They were 
civil enough mutually, but now and again the diffi- 
culties of the present life told on the temper; little 
irritable speeches, the bitterness that came of their 
position, broke through their tongues, and they 
wounded one another. No reconciliations cooled the 


i88 


Flower and Thorn 


heart-burnings^ There followed no oiling of the 
wounds, no renewing of friendship. The scars were 
smoothed over. The pair went on again, with no 
open rupture, but with jarred and jolted course. 

Valerie was the sinner; she bore the brunt of the 
punishment, as was just. David was busy; he was 
not much in his home. At first Valerie’s days were 
intolerably long, because less occupied. But soon 
she began to find that there is a useful law of com- 
pensation in this world. She began to find that 
when people have no money to amuse themselves 
with they have work to do which fully fills their 
time. She began to “do things,” as she vaguely des- 
ignated her labours. She stitched, she contrived 
clothes for her son. She worked herself stiff and 
headachey in the fashioning of them. 

Many a wretched week passed, and no change 
came to vary the daily villa life. 

She was looking white and wan in the heat of an 
August day, as she sat with her work in her hand, 
plying needle and thread. She, who had been fed 
on lover-like speeches, and enthroned, sat alone and 
deposed. 

Self-pity was not usually one of her failings ; she 
should go up presently, she told herself, and have 


Flower and Thorn 


189 


a cup of tea with Sandy. Nursery tea was a neces- 
sity, and Sandy was always frantic with delight at 
having her for his guest. Nowadays Valerie’s ma- 
ternal love was a passion ; she yearned over the boy. 
She spoilt him. All the pleasure she got out of life 
was through him. 

When that hot seam was felled, she intended to 
go upstairs. Heigh-ho! how soon did women get 
used to this sort of dog’s life, with nose to the grind- 
stone? Poverty was not rare, and indifferent wives 
and indifferent husbands as common as blackberries. 
Did the indifference always grow, watered with the 
blood of hearts, propagated with tears and deadly 
pain? Was it customarily brought forth with the 
intolerable throes of human birth ? 

Her thoughts were spoiling her labour, weaken- 
ing her fingers. 

“How soon does the pain go? How soon shall I 
settle down into life like — this? Thousands of 
women do it. How do they live and do it? How 
is it done?” 

Ah ! Valerie would go to the nursery now, before 
she lost her pluck. It was a melting day ; she had 
no self-control in this heat. 

She put her hands down upon the linen in her 


90 


Flower and Thorn 


lap, and gave a long, low sigh, that was kinsman to 
a sob. 

“Can you give me a cup of tea, Val?” said her 
husband’s voice from the doorway. David was 
seldom in his home at this hour, and she started at 
seeing him; she had been too engrossed in thought 
to hear his approach. 

“Will you ring, David, and order it?” she said, 
with a little air of ceremony, as though the occasion 
was no ordinary one. 

He did so, and she smiled, glad of company. 

“I always have tea in the nursery nowadays,” she 
explained. “It is not so lonely, and it is cheaper.” 

Valerie was naturally amiable; there was no mo- 
roseness, no malice about her. If her temper was 
roused, it was quick, passionate, reckless. If her 
anger was strong, it was not long ; it did not last. 

Living on bad terms with her neighbour was un- 
natural to her. She had been nurtured on appro- 
bation. To be in disgrace weighed upon her night 
and day. 

As she sat facing him in the frank, tell-tale sum- 
mer light, her husband looked at her, and he saw 
how she had altered. From a wan, white face, her 
dark, pathetic eyes looked back at him wistfully. 

He was fresh from luncheon with Jane. Jane 


Flower and Thorn 


19 


had engineered a possible smooth path for the Guth- 
ries, and had pointed it out to him. He supposed 
she had been giving him advice. Anyhow, he had 
left her, and had made his way home, primed with a 
new method of patching up the difficulties of daily 
life. Jane had suggested a remedy. 

David’s life was not going easily. His want of 
power to act, his helplessness, had done something 
to harden him. His masterful nature kicked so as 
to hurt itself, so as to damage its finer edges against 
his own impotence. 

Money is a two-edged sword; too much of it 
or too little of it damages and devastates heart, 
mind, even the life itself of its possessor. 

He had meant to make Valerie happy; he had 
meant things to go right. Her face was not the 
face of a happy woman, and things were going 
wrong. 

Now and again he had fought to get back into 
their old pleasant relationship with each other — 
it was worth fighting for ; but, though for an hour or 
so Valerie and he might seem to be as of yore, some 
hasty word, or dangerous subject, invariably rose 
between them, and a barrier, an insurmountable bar- 
rier, erected itself to bar a return to peace. God 
knew he was not in his heart hard upon his wife 


192 


Flower and Thorn 


because she had spent more money than she had. 
Jane had explained what Valerie had been too proud 
to mention. It was the Beauchamp smash, and the 
stopping of the cheques, in consequence of that 
smash, that had done the mischief. 

Perhaps he had, more or less, hardened his heart 
because Valerie had not, in the first place, told him 
of the trouble. He did not like having been deceived. 
It was that thought that rankled, that was the 
devastating mischief. If Valerie would have even 
now talked it out with him, it would have been dif- 
ferent, but she never alluded to it; she ignored the 
subject. 

When he saw her face now, he forgot his griev- 
ance against her. Her words, too, went to his heart. 

“It is less lonely,” she had said, “and it is 
cheaper !” 

He sat down by her side, his eyes softening as he 
watched her. 

“Loneliness” and “cheapness.” Poor Valerie. 

“Dear Val,” he said, “you have been having a 
rough time of it. All the cherishing I swore to do 
does not seem to amount to much. You took me 
for richer, for poorer, didn’t you, poor Val ? And it 
wasn’t for richer, I am sorry to say. Don’t you 


Flower and Thorn 


193 


think, if we put our heads together, that we might, 
between us, make a better job of it?” 

Her throat swelled, but she did not speak. She 
laid her tired, hot head against him, by way of 
answer. 

“I’ve had an offer for this house,” he said. “I 
can let it furnished for a year, till my time is up. It 
would be a good thing to do, for meanwhile you and 
I can go into rooms. No maids, you see, great 
economies, Val,” cheerfully. “Then, when my ap- 
pointment is up, I go back to the regiment, and we 
sell our furniture, pay back everything that may be 
left owing, and save the rest for frocks and emer- 
gencies. Our bad time won’t last forever. Cheer 
up, Valerie. It has been wretched, but here is day- 
light for you.” 

Hers was always, even when in disgrace, the most 
beautiful face in the world to David. He watched 
its expression now, with a light in his eye. Love 
was a poor sort of work-a-day possession if it was 
to be totally disabled at a blow, even by a blow to 
pride. But, alas ! it has but a delicate life. 

She, poor soul, had been thinking of late that her 
existence was never going to be anything but fric- 
tion, never anything but a series of economical 


194 


Flower and Thorn 


struggles to make two and sixpence do duty for a 
crown. She pondered her husband’s words, and 
smiled into his face. 

“David,” she said presently, under her breath, 
“then we can pay Jane.” 

“Yes, and without too appalling an effort.” 

“David, once before I suggested we should give 
up the house.” 

“Yes, but that was at first. I couldn’t bear the 
idea of giving it all up then. We have — at least I 
have — ^been very happy here.” 

She assented gently, and, tea coming in at this 
moment, she dispensed it with a resumption of her 
old animated assurance that could not but please 
David. Melancholy or depression in a wife must be 
always a vague rebuke to her protector, and is never 
popular. 

“Where did you find your tenant, David ? How 
good, how clever of you to have sprung such a sur- 
prise upon me.” 

“It is all Jane’s doing,” said David, frankly. “She 
suggested the whole thing. I lunched with her to- 
day to meet the Mirehouses, and we came to terms 
there and then. He will take the house off our hands 
as soon as we like. In fact, Mrs. Mirehouse is com- 
ing in presently to talk over matters with you.” 


Flower and Thorn 


195 


“With me,” said Val, with a new tone in her voice 
that roused her husband’s attention. “Am I to be 
consulted? I wonder Jane did not settle everything. 
She is such an excellent manager.” 

“You are not generous about Jane,” said Jane’s 
cousin, his voice, too, stiffening as hers had. Alas ! 
nowadays he never could talk for any length of time 
to Valerie without friction of some sort. Had she 
ever been the amiable woman he had believed her 
to be? She was now all pepper and vinegar. “Her 
idea was to make things a bit easier for you ; it was 
the sole idea we had when we concocted the plan. 
She is clear-headed and sensible, and I never heard 
her say anything that wasn’t kind about you. Lately, 
Val, you can’t lose an opportunity of getting a knife 
into her.” 

“Jane is not the mistress of this house. / am.” 

“You are unreasonable, Valerie.” 

“You always say so; perhaps I am. Men should 
marry reasonable women. They never seem able to 
find sufficiently reasonable women. Then, perhaps, 
there would not be so many cat and dog lives to be 
answered for.” 

Cat and dog? Had it come to this? Valerie 
openly called this life of theirs “cat and dog.” A 
minute or two ago a glow of something like the old 


196 


Flower and Thorn 


happiness had warmed David’s heart. He rose; he 
would go back to the club ; he could not trust himself 
here. He was distressed, agitated, wretched. 

It was at this unfortunate moment that Sandy 
burst into the drawing-room and clamoured for 
sugar from the basin. 

“Certainly not, sir,” thundered his father. 

But Sandy was out of hand and mutinous in the 
heat, and he darted at the forbidden basin, and 
helped himself to its contents under his parents’ 
nose. 

Captain Guthrie lifted a hand in righteous wrath. 

“You are disobedient, Sandy. I can’t allow you 
to disobey. I shall punish you for this. You hear 
what I say, I shall punish you.” 

Sandy broke from his father, and caught hold of 
his mother’s skirts. Then David saw that his wife’s 
face was deadly white and agitated. 

“You shall not touch him, David,” she said. Her 
lips trembled; she spoke with painful emotion. “I 
won’t let you touch him. I like him to do wrong. 
I like it. He won’t despise me then. He may pity 
me, if he is not — not immaculate.” 

If her voice had not broken, and if tears had not 
wet her passionate eyes, the scene might have been 
“cat and dog” to the end for David. 


Flower and Thorn 


197 


As it was, their good angel intervened. Sandy 
looked reprovingly at his defender. 

“You needn’t cry, muvver,” said he, advancing to 
his father bravely. “He’d bettern’d hurt me if he 
likes, cos I can’t be a soldier if I don’t obey. Muvver 
can’t help crying, faver ; she’s only a woman. I don’t 
mind.” 

And, to do him justice, he would not have minded 
if he had felt the weight of his father’s hand; but 
the form of his punishment was to be changed. 

“Run away, Sandy; run away upstairs,” said 
David gently. “We are talking, and a lady is com- 
ing very soon. Run away.” 

The boy was glad to be let off so lightly, and he 
went. There was always a question whether Sandy 
would see fit to obey or defy commands; his com- 
panionship was fraught with anxiety. 

Valerie had brought pride to her aid, and had re- 
sumed her self-command. 

“Mrs. Mirehouse will be here soon, I suppose, 
David ? What am I to say to her ?” 

“Agree to everything she wants. I have arranged 
all the big business with her husband.” He looked 
searchingly at his wife ; the barrier was up again. 

“Dear Val, don’t harden your heart against 
me. Let us begin — begin again.” 


Flower and Thorn 


He was pleading with her for the first time since 
the day of his awakening? but she was not to be ap- 
peased. She told herself that he took his worries 
to Jane, that together they discussed her; that he 
was hours and hours of each day away from his 
home; that his cousin received all his confidences; 
that he leaned upon her opinion and despised 
Valerie’s. 

The fact was that Valerie was jealous; she 
envied. 

Envy is at the root of most of this world’s mis- 
eries. The tenth commandment should be chief of 
all the commandments; it is seldom discarded with 
impunity. “For envy ye have delivered Him.” For 
envy hearts are bruised and mangled, the god-like 
propensities of humanity are torn, fretted, destroyed 
by the almost universal possession of envy. That 
inherent and devastating vice gnaws at the root of 
human nobility; it is possessed of a fatal capacity 
for destruction. 

“I am endeavouring,” said Valerie, ignoring 
David’s overtures, and speaking lightly, “to begin 
again. I am trying to be all a man wants as a wife. 
I shall never make a housekeeper, for I can’t dovetail 
to-day’s dinner into to-morrow’s luncheon, without 
your knowing it, David. All the cheap things I buy 


Flower and Thorn 


199 


are nasty things. When I look at cook, I think of a 
leg of mutton. I can never think of anything else.” 

“Val, it is beside the mark. Don’t put me ol¥ 
like this. It is not what I mean, and you know it.” 

“Is it beside the mark? I think not. Don’t let 
us dig down; what is the good? All this wretched- 
ness is my fault, not yours. It is I who have got at 
the foundation of our good time, and spoilt it. You 
don’t believe in me. You will never believe in me 
again. One can’t smooth out the surface, when the 
foundation is all wrong. There, go — go. That is 
a ring at the bell. Mrs. Mirehouse is coming. If 
we talked from now till the Judgment Day it would 
do no good.” 

Poor Valerie; it is the perverseness of the evil 
spirit such as possessed her to murder its owner’s 
best interests, to drive away the affection it fiercely 
covets, to show its owner in a vile light, to increase 
the difficulties of the narrow path, to be reckless of 
consequence in an insane desire to wound the heart 
that had wounded hers. 

To see David wince, to see his face work, his very 
lips grow white; to see the shadow of pain under 
his eyes ; to know that at any rate she could make 
him feel that she was capable of hurting still, was 
Valerie’s barbarous desire. 


200 


Flower and Thorn 


The new tenant, Mrs. Mirehouse, was now 
shown into the room, and put a stop to the dia- 
logue. 

The incomer was too self-engrossed to notice 
Mrs. Guthrie’s preoccupied manner. The latter 
soon shook herself free from mental encumbrance, 
and did her best to carry out David’s desires. She 
would let her house if it was possible to do so, and 
she would be pleasant about it. 

Mrs. Mirehouse was an agreeable person with 
whom to deal. Apparently she was more anxious 
to impress upon Mrs. Guthrie the Guthrie insignifi- 
cance by contrast with the magnificence of the 
clan of Mirehouse, than to drive any bargain. She 
said that it was the smallness of the villa which at- 
tracted her; that the restfulness of having all her 
possessions within arm’s length was alluring ! She 
mentioned that she had “just come from staying 
with her husband’s father; that she was tired out. 
Caderwallergo was such a huge place; her bedroom 
had been in the west wing, a quarter of a mile from 
the drawing-room. She really must find a contrast 
to Caderwallergo; as a contrast this tiny villa was 
delightful.” She was prepared to be satisfied with 
anything, if only it was small enough. 

Mrs. Guthrie was impressionable enough, for she 


Flower and Thorn 


20 


opened her eyes very wide, as she ushered her in- 
structive companion about her premises, pointing 
out its attractions meekly. She was even apolo- 
getic when Mrs. Mirehouse asked to see the gar- 
den. 

“It is untidy now, I am afraid,” said its owner, 
going out into the fierce sunshine on the grass, and 
looking down at the weeds in the pansy bed. The 
pansies had deteriorated; they were wild, blossom- 
less, disorderly — there are few flowers which, un- 
der neglect, degenerate so rapidly as do pansies. 
“But if you have it properly looked after, Mrs. 
Mirehouse, it will do well. The soil is splendid, 
and that little clump of trees give a thick shade, 
you see.” 

“What a queer little end of a lawn; no room for 
croquet.” 

“If you were to turf the flower beds, croquet 
might be managed.” 

“Yes” — hopefully — “I had not thought of that. 
The whole place is like a doll’s house. It will be an 
excitement to fit oneself into it.” 

Mrs. Guthrie’s heart swelled suddenly, till she 
caught her breath. 

“There is a garden, anyhow,” continued the new 
tenant, agreeably. “It is better than nothing.” 


202 


Flower and Thorn 


This was what paying a debt meant, thought 
Valerie; to pay a debt was better perhaps than to 
owe, but honesty hurt. 

“Better than nothing” — her pansies and her gar- 
den better than “nothing!” Valerie’s home was 
dear to her; it was vastly better than the “nothing” 
to which she was going. 

“I must bring my palms,” said the new tenant, 
returning to the house, “if we can manage to 
get them in. My aunt in Cheshire has an acre of 
the most exquisite palms under glass; she gives me 
what I want. They die so soon, poor dears. I am 
having a dozen pressed — preserved, you know; 
they answer all the purpose and save trouble.” 

“Live things always give trouble,” said Mrs. 
Guthrie suddenly. Then she went on slowly, re- 
turning to business. “Would you like to see the 
nursery? It is a sunny room.” 

“I have no children,” said Mrs. Mirehouse, with 
an air of superior sagacity. “When one isn’t well 
off it is a great convenience to be without them. I 
hate jammy pinafores, and a nursery within earshot. 
Children without plenty of space, and plenty of 
nurses, drive one mad.” 

“You would like them preserved and pressed, no 


Flower and Thorn 


203 


doubt,” said Mrs. Guthrie. “That also would save 
trouble.” 

“Mr. Mirehouse is the ninth son,” said his wife. 
The Mirehouses were lavish in every relation of 
life, it seemed. “There were seven sisters. Of 
course such a family impoverished them dread- 
fully. By the way, Mrs. Guthrie, you know my 
cousins, the Wetherals. We really settled to take 
a house here because of them. It is so pleasant to 
know the nicest people in any neighbourhood, and 
the Wetherals are quite charming.” 

“Quite,” said Mrs. Guthrie, politely. 

“Do you know Rupert and Alice well?” 

“Fairly well. I have not been out much to any- 
thing just lately, but I have met them a good deal. 
We have no cart now, and the distance makes call- 
ing difficult. I am always hoping to get an oppor- 
tunity of calling on Lady Alice Wetheral.” 

This was a statement merely founded on fact. 

“One of my husband’s brothers,” said Mrs. 
Mirehouse, instructively, “married a cousin of the 
Wetherals; it is not a near relationship, but it is a 
tie. Rupert told me, too, what a pretty house yours 
was. He was enthusiastic about it; he seemed to 
know it well.” 


204 


Flower and Thorn 


“He has been here once,” said Mrs. Guthrie, 
gravely, recalling that interview of theirs on a mo- 
mentous day that marked a turning point in the 
villa life, and wondering what they had talked 
about — she could never quite remember. 

Everyone knew the Wetherals did not get on. 
“A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind.” 
Valerie felt full of pity for them both. 

“I hope soon to go and see them.” 

“Let us take you,” said Mrs. Mirehouse. “I have 
a very decent cob, which my husband is trying to 
match. I can’t exist without horses. I used to hunt 
four days a week. We had magnificent horses; my 
father drove four-in-hand, and he mounted anyone 
in the house. Since I was two I have ridden every 
day of my life, but I had a frightful accident some 
years ago; I broke every bone in my body — almost, 
and it gave my husband a shock, and shook his 
nerve. He doesn’t hunt himself now, and he won’t 
let me. Do you ride?” 

“A bicycle,” said Mrs. Guthrie, with a whimsical 
smile, “and I don’t much like it.” 

Mrs. Mirehouse felt that she had established her 
position. Brag is a good dog. If Holdfast is a 
better, she knew nothing about it. Brag was good 
enough for her. Brag is a pliable beast, never 


Flower and Thorn 


205 


shirks his work, is not lightly cowed, and can make 
his way wonderfully well in the world, for a mon- 
grel. 

“I like your tiny house,” she said, pleasantly, 
when she had done the work of inspection from 
end to end — there is a subtle, unreasonable offen- 
siveness in a tenant, of which the speaker was hap- 
pily unaware, but of which Valerie was ashamedly 
conscious — “and I am glad Montie has made up 
his mind to take it for a year. Your time is up 
then, isn’t it? and Captain Guthrie’s appointment 
ends? He goes to India then, Mrs. Mallam tells 
me. I can’t think how you women with children 
can face the separation of India. If you leave your 
husband, he is sure to be huffy, and if you leave 
your children to outsiders it is sheer cruelty. How 
you choose between them I can’t think ! I have a 
sister in India, looking after a wild sort of husband. 
Her two little girls died of scarlet fever last year. 
She is a wreck, a broken-down wreck, she really is. 
Women without children wear better; children 
bring suffering and anxiety from first to last. Dear 
me, you are looking so tired. I always forget that 
people get tired. Personally I am as strong as a 
horse. I can walk ten miles in the heat without 
feeling it.” 


2o6 


Flower and Thorn 


Mrs. Guthrie politely disclaimed fatigue, opened 
the door, and accompanied her visitor to the gate. 
When Mrs. Mirehouse was out of sight, the mis- 
tress of the little villa went back into her home, 
looking as though she had seen a ghost. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“We have careful thought for the stranger, 

And smiles for the sometime guest ; 

But oft for our own the bitter tone, 

Tho’ we love our own the best.” 

Valerie spent the following evening alone, for, 
during the afternoon, she received a note from her 
husband, written from the club, saying that he was 
going to dine with a friend, and would not be back 
at the villa until late. Over her dinner of herbs 
Mrs. Guthrie read a book — fiction was a refuge 
from the perplexing facts of daily life. 

David, on his walk to Leigh, had come across his 
cousin Jane. He had not been in the humour for a 
petticoat, but she had accosted him eagerly. She 
was curious to know whether her arrangements for 
the transfer of the villa had been successful, and 
though David’s face did not invite confidence, she 
was not to be evaded. 

She looked with great good humour into his set 
countenance. 

“How do you do, again, David? I want to know 
• — has Mrs. Mirehouse been to see Valerie?” 


2o8 


Flower and Thorn 


“I have just left her with Valerie,” 

“Is it all right?” 

“I hope so.” 

“I hope so too; but Mrs. Mirehouse gives one 
the idea that she might be erratic.” 

“No doubt she is erratic. Most women are.” 

“You don’t think she is likely to change her 
mind?” 

“I know nothing about her mind. Her husband 
settled the show.” 

“Was Valerie glad?” 

“Glad? Umph, she was not exactly pleased at 
the cracking up of the doll’s house.” 

Jane’s face fell slightly. Poor David, he had 
been made, as usual, to suffer for Valerie’s incapac- 
ities. He was out of humour. No doubt he had 
just cause. 

“Doesn’t Valerie want to let the house?” 

“I don’t think she knows what she wishes,” said 
her exasperated husband; and then, finding that his 
wretchedness was making him disloyal, he added 
more gently, “When the wrench is over, and we 
are living within our income, we shall find things a 
bit easier. Now that she understands, Valerie is 
valiantly parsimonious, but it has been hard on 
her.” 


Flower and Thorn 


209 


“Poor Val,” said Jane, genially, and then for a 
moment she paused. 

“David,” speaking in a brisk, bracing tone, “you 
want to get the thing done, don’t you? and off your 
mind?” 

Indeed, and in truth, that was his human desire. 
Weight on his mind and weight on his heart spoilt 
the heavy days of his life. 

He nodded his reply. 

“Well,” said the universal provider, pleasantly, 
“I know of some rooms, they are excellent, and I 
thought of you, and I went round this afternoon 
to see them. I dotted down every particular and 
made a list. Here it is; take it with you and study 
it. Nothing better could be found, I am sure.” 

Captain Guthrie smiled at last. 

“Jane, that is good of you. I couldn’t think 
where on earth to go. It is a relief to hear of this 
in the nick of time.” 

He reflected a moment. 

“Go over and see Val about it, do, and settle it 
between you. I must be going on. I’m dining 
with a friend at the club to-night.” 

Jane Mallam had not earned her reputation for 
good nature without labour. She expended hoards 
of energy upon the concerns of her neighbours. 


210 


Flower and Thorn 


She was never idle, her thoughts were engrossed 
by the necessities of humanity; the little services 
which tend to make life run more smoothly were 
her special care. 

Some people appreciated her help; other thick- 
headed folk preferred to muddle on alone in their 
own way; whilst others, again, whose hearts were 
sore, and heads sick, and who felt the weight of 
their incapacity, half resented the well-meant in- 
terference of the capable, kind lady. 

It may be allowed that at one time Valerie had 
somewhat traded on Jane’s good nature, but that 
night, when that energetic person bicycled up to 
the villa after her dinner, to see Mrs. Guthrie, to 
tell her about the rooms which she had found, and 
to hear all the news that was to be heard, Valerie 
did not receive her cordially, but was aggressively 
airy and unpractical. 

Mrs. Mallam was not an offendable person, nor 
was she thin-skinned. She saw at once that Valerie 
was in what she lightly called “a difficult mood,” 
and she tried to soothe her with a view of a straight 
path before her feet. 

“How do you do, Valerie? I knew David was 
dining out, so I hiked up to see you. My husband 


Flower and Thorn 


21 


is asleep; I had nothing to do, so I thought I would 
come up to have a chat, and to hear your news.” 

“Very good of you. I’m sure. You are the most 
indefatigable of women.” 

Valerie’s voice was slow, thin, forced; she heard 
its strangeness herself, and wondered whether her 
visitor noticed it too. 

“Don’t come here for news, Jane — the domestic 
treadmill has none. The trivial round furnishes me 
with all I need ask. There is no space for the intro- 
duction of news.” 

“But I wanted to hear about the Mirehouses.” 

“Then you should hear Mrs. Mirehouse, Jane. 
She would oblige you.” 

“I mean I wanted to hear your news.” 

“My news? Pouf! the news was yours — David 
brought it to me. You do everything for us: you 
have let our house. It would only be fair to ask 
you to take the inventory.” 

“Then it is settled that the house is to let ?” 

“Yes, we go out next week.” 

“Where are you going to?” 

“Not to the workhouse — yet.” 

“I mean, seriously — have you thought of 
rooms?” 


212 


Flower and Thorn 


“Have I thought of heaven, or the other place? 
In the abstract, no more.” 

“If you have nothing in your eye, Valerie, I 
know of a capital house. I went over the rooms 
to-day; I really don’t think you could do better. I 
know you hate being bothered, you poor dear, but 
David referred me to you. I’ve got the facts dot- 
ted down on this paper.” 

“Have you sampled the cooking, Jane? You 
know how happiness — I mean the peace of married 
life — rests in the kitchen range.” 

“Of course I do,” stoutly; “that was my first 
consideration. The woman has been a cook, a good 
cook.” 

“That means,” said Valerie, “that the woman has 
a temper. No one can cook well and be placid, so 
David has the advantage. I shall reap the inevit- 
able results of his good dinners through the land- 
lady. That is the give and take of matrimony.” 

“There is a nice south room for Sandy. The 
drawing-room might be made pretty, it has capac- 
ities. There is plenty of light and air everywhere, 
and no extras.” 

“What is your commission, Jane? You are in- 
comparable, you handy business woman! You 
might make a dozen men happy instead of only 


Flower and Thorn 


213 


one. You can ‘feed the beasts/ and flatter them, 
and manage them, and enjoy it all. I envy you. I 
was not meant for matrimony. I told David so, 
years ago. It was second sight.” 

“Dear me, Val, what nonsense.” 

“Very grim sense, Jane.” 

“Lately I have often thought,” kindly, “that you 
were turning into quite a good manager.” 

Mrs. Guthrie tapped her foot on the ground. 

“I take to management about as readily as a 
child takes to his lessons, as a savage to civilisation. 
A good manager? I am afraid my ambitions never 
lay in that direction. I know now that meanness is 
management, and meanness is a necessary adjunct 
of want of money.” 

“I don’t see that one should waste one’s hus- 
band’s money, however much he has,” said Jane, 
nettled. 

“I know you don’t.” 

There was a distinctly dangerous silence, and then 
Valerie began to gossip, swooping down lightly 
on a dozen subjects in succession, and treating 
nothing seriously. It was impossible to Jane to 
feel that she was any sort of use to Valerie upon 
this occasion, and before long she rose to say good- 
bye. “Her husband woke up about ten, and they 


214 


Flower and Thorn 


played backgammon,” she said; “she must be on 
her way home.” 

Valerie did not press her to stay, but just before 
she left, she, with some vague prickings of con- 
science, began to express her gratitude to Mrs. 
Mallam. 

“It is very good of you, Jane, to botner about 
us.” 

“My dear, you know we Scots are clannish. T 
look upon you Guthries as a part, and a very big 
part, of myself. Your interests are my interests. I 
do wish I could be some substantial help to you.” 

Valerie looked up quickly at the speaker. Those 
full elastic lips of Jane’s were not quite steady. 
Valerie, with a sudden generous impulse, took her 
cousin’s large white hand in hers, and wrung it. 

“You are a trump, Jane,” said she, “and I am a 
brute.” 

The face of the brute looked pale and wan. Jane 
kissed it gently. 

When she had gone, Valerie drew a long, shud- 
dering breath. 

“She is a trump,” she repeated, and then she 
wrung her hands together. “And we were deadly 
near a quarrel. I’m a failure” — tears were on her 
cheeks. “He would have been happy with her; she 


Flower and Thorn 


215 


is a wiser, better woman than I am. She is a good 
wife, an excellent wife; I’m only the sort of person 
to love and to tire of.” 

She paced to and fro in thought. She had been 
struggling against a breakdown for hours; she had 
been calm, but the new emotions of anger and self- 
depreciation, jangling in amongst unhappiness, set 
the tears upon her cheeks. 

Later she went over with a slow, half-reluctant 
step to her writing bureau, and, touching a spring, 
opened a drawer therein, which was crammed to 
the hilt with letters. Selecting at random a few 
of these multitudinous epistles, she sat herself down 
on the nearest chair, and began to read them eag- 
erly, the leaves of the paper fluttering between her 
trembling fingers. 

It was an innocent occupation, for the letters 
were from David — ardent, fervent love-letters, 
every one of them, and written in the pre-nuptial 
days of long ago. How little she had valued all 
these protestations when she had first read them. 
And now they seemed to her as pathetic as letters 
from the dead. 

She read herself into a bitter fit of crying. “He 
used to like me,” she said; “he used to, he used to.” 
Her wretchedness tired her out; she leaned her 


2i6 


Flower and Thorn 


head against the back of the chair, and wept till she 
was too weary to feel acutely; then she fell a-think- 
ing, and her thoughts were long, so long that they 
presently grew dreamy, and from dreaming turned 
later into sleep — sound, heavy sleep that knew 
nothing of time, or place, or solitude. 

Captain Guthrie stayed late at his club. Why 
should he hurry home? The villa life was not se- 
ductive. Valerie never asked him where he had 
been, nor seemed desirous of his return. She left 
him free. 

Such freedom this Briton did not prize, though 
he took advantage of it. The cathedral clock struck 
the hour as he neared home. It was one o’clock. 
David saw lights in the windows of his house as he 
approached it, and he hurried his footsteps with a 
new vague uneasiness added to his mental heavi- 
ness. 

For many months the Wetherals had died out of 
David’s life ; he had never cast a thought to them. 

Upon one occasion Mr. Wetheral had been to 
the villa, but its mistress, heeding her husband’s 
attitude upon the parasol question, had so con- 
ducted herself that the visit had not been repeated. 

On turning into the lane which led to his home 


Flower and Thorn 


217 


David was startled and amazed to find Mr. Weth- 
eral’s dog-cart drawn up at the villa gate. 

The cart was empty; a groom stood at the head 
of a chafing horse. 

It was not dark — it is never wholly dark on a 
summer night, and the man, recognising David, 
and answering to his astonished start, set to easing 
his mind without delay. 

“It is nothing much wrong, sir, after all. We 
were dining at Maitland, and driving back home 
this way. As we came along we heard shrieks and 
screams coming from your house, and we stopped, 
sir, to see what was wrong.” 

“Good Lord!” 

“It’s all nothing, sir; it was the lady was fright- 
ened, and the servants too. A tramp coming down 
the road saw a light, and he found the door open, 
and came in, and they couldn’t get him out. He 
was drunk, sir, and rough. It woke the child, and 
it screamed for the loudest. My master soon set- 
tled him.” 

David tore up his staircase two steps at a time, 
making straight for his nursery, where all his 
household were assembled — Sandy in a shawl, sit- 
ting on Mr. Wetheral’s knee, flushed with excite- 
ment and talking shrilly; Valerie, pale and un- 


2i8 


Flower and Thorn 


nerved, hanging over her little son; the maids, 
promiscuously attired, and full of animation, in the 
background of the scene. 

If a householder neglects his dependents, leaving 
them unprotected, and if his place be successfully 
filled for him, he should be properly grateful to the 
preserver of his family. 

David was in the wrong, and he accepted his 
position stoutly. No one could have shown more 
tenderness for the nerves of his scared household 
than did this wanderer on his return. There was 
nothing small about David; he blamed himself, 
compassionated the womenkind, and was grateful 
to their rescuer. He forbore to turn up his nose 
at the feminine panic. 

Presently, when he had pitied and praised them 
all sufficiently, he sent the maids back to bed. 
Sandy’s eyes were closing, so he was laid back once 
more in his cot, and then David invited Mr. Weth- 
eral downstairs for a whisky and soda. Mrs. 
Guthrie accompanied them; she was still agitated 
and emotional, and distinctly disinclined to be left 
alone. Captain Guthrie settled her in a chair, and 
sat himself close beside her. 

“Tell me all about it, Val,” he said, looking at 
her solicitously. 


Flower and Thorn 


219 


“I sat up late, and I got sleepy, David. I had 
been reading.” He, who knew her face by heart, 
watched her with a stab of sharp compunction; he 
saw by those beautiful eyes that she had done more 
than read; her face was stained by tears. Mr. 
Wetheral looked, too, puzzled. “And I went off to 
sleep in the drawing-room. When I awoke, I 
awoke with a start. I heard you — I mean that I 
thought I heard you — in the passage. I was wide 
awake in a second, and I got up to put some papers 
back in my bureau. I was a minute in doing it, and 
in shutting the lock. Then I took my candle and 
went to meet you. Oh, David, there was a shock- 
ing-looking man in the doorway! I thought he 
was a burglar. I know I ought not to have 
shrieked, but I lost my head, and I did shriek — and 
I woke them all, and they came out on the landing, 
and shrieked too. Then I remembered Sandy, and 
I tried to talk to the man. I saw he was drunk, 
and I offered him money to go away. He didn’t 
seem to understand, and he got hold of my arm 
and held me, and I couldn’t move. And then, oh ! 
then I heard wheels; the front door was open all 
the while. I thought it was you, David, but it was 
Mr. Wetheral. He was so kind; he was so clever, 
he got the man out of the house in a minute, and 


220 


Flower and Thorn 


he calmed us all. I was never so thankful to see 
anyone in all my life as to see him.” 

Mr. Wetheral certainly accepted the situation 
gracefully. He was much interested and gratified 
himself. 

“It was such extraordinary luck that I should 
have happened to be where I was wanted,” he re- 
iterated repeatedly. “I was dining at Maitland, and 
I ordered the cart early, but I kept it waiting. Upon 
my soul, it was lucky I did keep it waiting. That 
boy of yours, with the shrieking women, might 
have been frightened to death, Guthrie.” 

“You let the man go?” 

“Good heavens, yes. What could we do with 
him here, Guthrie, under the circumstances? He 
swore that he found the front door open, and that 
he merely called for some cider. No one stopped 
shrieking till he was off the premises. I was thank- 
ful to let him go.” 

“I am sorry the brute got off scot free.” 

“So am I, but he was a great big chap, and I 
wasn’t sorry to get him clear of your house.” 

“You were very valiant,” said Valerie, gra- 
ciously. “You ordered him off. I thought you 
had not noticed that he was a head taller, and a 
foot broader, than yourself.” 


Flower and Thorn 


221 


Then Valerie proceeded to tell the story of her 
former rescue from a tramp at Felixstowe, years 
ago. 

“Guthrie had the luck then,” said the hearer, “so 
it is only fair I should have had my turn.” 

A great many anecdotes of burglars and burg- 
laries cropped up from the fluent tongue of the 
Guthries’ guest, David maintaining a polite atti- 
tude of interested attention. His gratitude to Mr. 
Wetheral strangled his yawns, and when at last he 
had departed, and the man and wife were left alone, 
David continued to express his gratitude to the de- 
liverer. 

“You must get over and call on his wife, Val, 
now. It must be done.” 

And a few days later this visit was accomplished. 
Lady Alice was at home, and Valerie, laying herself 
out to please, was fairly successful in her en- 
deavours. 

What wonder if this poor girl was variable, bit- 
ter, hard, cold, proud, uncertain, hard to please? 
What wonder? The Wetherals “did not get on,” 
it was a fact that was public property, “they did not 
get on.” 

She was not likely to endure the unbearableness 
of such a position and keep an equable manner for 


222 


Flower and Thorn 


the world outside. Valerie would not be prone to 
take offence; she would do the little she could to 
soothe the wounded. Very little it was, she knew. 
Nothing from without can help the man and wife 
who “do not get on.” 

The dawning knowledge that estrangement was 
to be their fate must be like death. They had been 
called upon to suffer the first sharp stinging pang 
of bereavement, then the long dull aching of an 
irreparable loss. Men felt such miseries less acutely 
than women; they could wean themselves more 
lightly from the life of home. But Valerie was full 
of pity for them both. 

He was at home when she called ; he took her out 
into his garden, and sent her back into those dreary 
lodgings, to which the Guthries had just moved, 
laden with carnations such as would transform her 
dingy sitting-room into a semblance of home. 

If she had made a mull of life, Mr. Wetheral 
never guessed it. He had been eager, assiduous to 
please her. She had been just for the time rein- 
stated in her old imperial position. She drove 
homewards with a pleasant taste in her mouth. 

She had set out that afternoon in bad spirits. 
David had helped her into the cart. 

“You look tired, Val,” he had said, and the kitid- 


Flower and Thorn 


223 


ness of his voice had brought tears to her eyes, 
which she had turned away to hide. 

“All the fuss and work of moving here tired me 
rather,” she had answered. “A few days’ rest is all 
I want.” 

She wanted more than that, and David knew 
that it was so, as he stood with a heavy heart 
watching her drive away. 

He turned back into this new domicile in Priory 
Terrace, looking about him with a deadly disrelish 
for the place. His keen eyes were dulled by the 
tame, unlovely friction of his lot, but his heart was 
softened towards the poor sinner who had just 
driven off, a martyr to social duty. Could he do 
nothing to bring smiles back to the lips he had 
loved so well? 

“You here, David?” broke in a voice upon his 
pre-occupation, the genial but monotonous voice 
of his cousin Jane. “I thought you had driven to 
Rexstead, and I brought these flowers for Valerie.” 

“How kind of you. I haven’t gone to Rexstead; 
Val has driven to the Wetherals’ instead; she had 
to call there. She is looking seedy; she wants air. 
She has had her head in a box for a week.” 

With one comprehensive look round the room, 
Mrs. Mallam grasped the situation. 


224 


Flower and Thorn 


“Valerie hasn’t unpacked any of her household 
goods yet,” she said. “The whole place is hoed up, 
but not raked over.” 

“Poor girl, she has been too tired for any extra 
work; she is going to get things straight next week. 
There are two boxes upstairs ready to be un- 
packed.” 

“Are you busy, David ?” 

“I’ve nothing to do.” 

“Then come and help unpack, and we’ll transform 
this room by the time Valerie comes home. It is 
enough to give you all the blues as it is now.” 

He wanted to please his wife, and of course Jane 
knew best the way to do it. 

Together the cousins unpacked Valerie’s knick- 
knacks; together they moved furniture and hung 
curtains; together they concealed angles and broke 
lines; together they strewed china and photographs 
about the room, till the environments of Priory Ter- 
race grew pleasanter and pleasanter to its inmates’ 
eyes. 

The villa vases were filled with Jane’s flowers as 
a final touch, and David laughed at his own astute- 
ness, gloating over the pleasing preparations for 
Valerie’s return. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“The woman’s cause is man’s; they rise or sink 
Together, dwarfed or god-like, bond or free.’’ 

Valerie's cheerful mood lasted her all the way 
home, and David was on the steps to greet her, and 
he led her, with a little air of ceremony, into a trans- 
figured sitting-room. 

‘T thought you would be glad to get some bits 
of your own drawing-room about you, Val,” he said, 
looking at her. 

And she was glad; she thanked him as the Valerie 
of yore might have done, with the assured gracious- 
ness of an indulged woman. 

“How kind of you, David.” 

She walked about, looking at the improvements in 
her domain, tweaking here, rearranging there, inter- 
ested and animated. Her quick, graceful move- 
ments appealed to his sense of admiration; he sat 
watching her with kindly eyes. Tea was brought 
in. There had not been so exhilarating a domestic 
tea-drinking at the Guthries' for many a day. 


226 


Flower and Thorn 


“We have touched up this dismal little den of 
yours rather successfully, haven’t we, Val?” 

“It’s a very pretty room, David — now.” 

“It is nice of you to say that.” 

“There won’t be so much worry here, David,” 
wistfully, “and far better cooking. We must try not 
to mind anything.” 

“I shan’t — mind.” 

She looked down at the carnations lying piled on 
a chair beside her. 

“I have asked the Wetherals to tea after the flower 
show.” 

“All right. You have been a lonely, dismal 
Jimmy lately; it isn’t natural. You always used to 
like people in and out.” 

“David, everything costs money. You would not 
believe it, but bread and butter is expensive. In-and- 
out people are dear.” 

“You won’t have to skin your flints so closely 
now, Valerie.” 

“I shall be stingy as long as I live.” 

“Have I taught you such an abominable lesson, 
Valerie, as that?” 

“Let us call it ‘cutting our coats according to our 
cloth,’ David. That sounds virtuous — virtuous, and 
fairly easy,” 


Flower and Thorn 


227 


“I hope,” irrelevantly, “you won’t go on cursing 
the day we came across each other in that green lane, 
Valerie. I hate to think you curse it.” 

She lost her new air of gaiety, and looked at him. 

“Have you cursed it?” she asked him, staring into 
his face. 

His keen glance met her anxious eyes for a mo- 
ment in silence. 

“Never,” he said, steadfastly. “Never once, Va- 
lerie.” 

She smiled, a not quite steady smile, and went 
over to her flowers. 

These two people were conscious of possessing 
feelings so explosive that a chance turn of subject 
might fire a mine and bring about disaster. 

Habit is second nature, and until lately their habit 
of life had been so peaceable a one that they had 
learned no knack of warding off these new combative 
dangers. 

Valerie brought an impersonal turn to the dia- 
logue by introducing the safe topic of carnations, 
and shortly her husband took leave of her and went 
out. 

He went out with fresh hopes running high. He 
hummed the air of a sentimental ditty of Valerie’s, 


228 


Flower and Thorn 


the words of the song striking him as specially- 
pleasing : 


“One morning, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved. 

All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would 
cease : 

’Twas the thrush sang in the garden, ' Hear the story, hear 
the story,’ 

And the Lark sang, ‘ Give us glory,’ 

But the Dove sang, ‘ Give us peace.’ ” 


David was of one mind with this dove. Give him 
peace, the untold, inexpressible, daily blessing of 
peace. 

Elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp, peace now evaded 
him. Occasionally it seemed to hover over his house- 
hold, but he lacked dexterity to secure it. 

In this exalted mood, David came across an old 
friend of his at the club, and asked him to come and 
dine at Priory Terrace, and the friend accepted the 
invitation. David thoughtfully dispatched a note to 
acquaint Valerie with the arrangement. 


“Dearest” (he wrote), 

“I have asked Duncan to dine at 7.45 to-night. 
I let you know at once. 

“Yours as ever. 


“D. G.” 


Flower and Thorn 


229 

At twenty minutes to eight belated David tore up 
the stairs to dress. He had brought his guest. 

“Val, Duncan is here. I waited to show him the 
way.” 

Her face was an enigma, but it was not gracious. 

“I’m sorry I am late, but I won’t be long. Wa^ 
it all right ? Have you enough dinner ?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Duncan is staying at the ‘Rougemont.’ I hadn’t 
seen him since I was at Plymouth. He is a good 
sort. I thought you would like him.” 

“My dear David, don’t apologise ; I shall welcome 
anyone who breaks our solitude a deux” 

And David had left this home dreaming of peace. 
The truce had been an armistice of an hour; war 
had broken out afresh. The next moment the door 
of the dressing-room closed sharply; its inmate was 
nettled — stung to the quick. He had left Valerie 
gracious and gentle ; he had returned to a defensive, 
artificial woman. God knew why. He was sick of 
the riddle. 

In former days, people who had partaken of 
Guthrie pot-luck had been people to be pitied. In 
the school of adversity Valerie had learnt some prac- 
tical lessons; she had learnt the importance of 
dinner. 


230 


Flower and Thorn 


The men were to-night soothed by the excellence 
of the little repast set before them ; and the alluring 
hostess, in a white dress, with a green ribbon in her 
hair, set herself to please, and did as well in her 
department as the cook had done in the kitchen. 

When the men were left alone, and Valerie had 
gone to the other room, the guest told David “he 
was the luckiest chap in the world, and that he, 
Duncan, only wished that he could afford to marry 
and the loyal host nodded, agreed, and turned the 
subject. 

He who wears the shoes suffers the pinching, and 
onlookers don’t always see much of the game. 

Captain Duncan fidgetted to get back to his 
attractive hostess. She was in a mood that night 
strangely unfamiliar to her husband. What, in 
heaven’s name, had gone wrong? David sat apart, 
moody and quiet, whilst she sang French songs, and 
coon songs, and entertained their guest. She was 
restless, excited; she laughed too easily, and talked 
at random. She was a charming person, but she 
was not Valerie. 

Furtively, she said things to wound one of her 
hearers. He, recognising that such was the case, 
grew wrathful and combative himself. 


Flower and Thorn 


231 


Captain' Duncan stayed late, and on his way back 
to the “Rougemont” he decided that Guthrie had 
gone off — that he was a bearish, sulky fellow, 
and that his wife was a great deal too good 
for him. 

After David had made his curtailed adieux to his 
guest, he went back to the little drawing-room to put 
out the lights. Valerie was still there, putting 
away her songs that had been scattered over the 
piano. 

David was in that dangerous station, the dark. 
He did not know his offence ; he could not divine the 
cause of her anger towards him. How could he 
guess that she was jealous of Jane? The idea was 
too preposterous to enter his mind. 

Sandy had done the mischief ; he had invaded the 
downstairs premises as soon as his father had left 
the house, and he had been prattling of the joys in 
which he had been allowed to share. 

“I helped unpack your ’normous great boxes, 
muvver, and cousin Jane let me carry what wasn’t 
very breaky, and I helped faver, too ; it was 
fun.” 

“Was Jane here?” 

“All the whole time. She fought of every- 


232 


Flower and Thorn 


fing ; faver and me did it. We made the whole room 
bootiful, didn’t we?” 

After these confidences, Sandy’s mother gave 
up playing and began to think. 

“Don’t fink, muwer,” the frivolous youth im- 
plored. “It isn’t at all nice downstairs when you 
fink ; you’ve funk a lot lately.” 

But his mother did not shake off her meditations, 
and the boy’s hour was disappointing. He went off 
later to bed, willingly enough. 

“Muvver’s gotten to fink,” he explained to his 
nurse, “or she’s gotten a headache. We haven’t 
’joyed ourselves at all.” 

Now that man and wife were at last alone, 
David, hardening his heart, turned to defend him- 
self from the imaginary offence for which he was 
being punished. 

“What is the matter, Valerie? Upon my soul, I 
cannot understand you. I left you this afternoon 
cheery and nice, I came back this evening and found 
you uncivil, prickly as a porcupine, aggressive. How 
have I offended you ? What have I done ?” 

For a moment she looked interrogatively into his 
face. Then she spoke, coldly, lightly : 

“Don’t you think we might rub along better with- 
out explanations that can’t mend matters ? Our life 


Flower and Thorn 


233 


is likely to be difficult enough, without stripping 
thoughts bare which are not in the nature of things 
comfortable. Don’t let us make it worse than it 
need be.” 

David winced ; had it got so bad as this, that ex- 
planations must be foregone ? It was like the fore- 
going of hope. 

“You are unreasonable, Valerie; unreasonable 
and unjust. I am conscious of no offence. If I had 
treated you vilely, you could not speak to me with a 
greater show of contempt. What have I done? At 
least let me hear that.” 

Valerie’s eyes blazed. That great motive power 
which wrecks many a life had got her in thrall. 

“You have married the wrong woman. It is not 
much, but it is enough. You have married me ; you 
should have married a good upper servant, a useful, 
domestic woman. You,” with her head held high 
and her angry eyes upon his face, “you should have 
married Jane.” 

“I wish to God I had!” he cried, exasperated 
beyond endurance. 

A silence fell on his words like death. 

She turned quickly and hurried from the room ; he 
heard her stumble unsteadily on her way upstairs. 


234 


Flower and Thorn 


“When some beloved voice, that was to you 
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly. 

And silence against which you dare not cry 
Aches round you like a strong disease.” 

He paused, struggling with himself, then he 
hurried after her with a sudden gush of tenderness, 
of misgiving. But he had not been quick enough; 
she had turned into her boy’s sleeping-room; the 
nurse was there. The boy had wakened, dreaming 
and frightened; his mother had him already in her 
arms, and was lulling him back to sleep. 

When next her husband saw her she was quite 
composed and self-contained, and he sought for no 
further explanation. 

Dreary time passed on; David was beginning 
doggedly to accept the almost unbearable petty 
adversities of his daily life. 

Such existence is not improving ; liis naturally hot 
temper, which he had ruled zealously for the sake 
of the love he bore his wife, would not be cowed by 
other motive powers. 

Over most trivial domestic offences he would, 
nowadays, break into sudden anger; with whetted 
tongue he would storm at his household. I do not 
think he ever directed his indignation at Valerie; she 
sat mute, with her eyes on the ground during these 
thunderstorms which broke over her home. 


Flower and Thorn 


235 


Occasionally, the monkey-tricks of his irrepressi- 
ble boy called for the parental anger, but Valerie 
never provoked argument, nor did anything to ex- 
cuse Sandy from punishment. Her meek demean- 
our did not cool Captain Guthrie. He knew too 
well that the amenable surface was but skin-deep. 
He felt full of offence towards her. He had things 
now of which to repent in his treatment of her. Do 
what he would, the cool civility of a reserved daily 
contact could not retain its uniform mutual polite- 
ness. He could not act a part for ever in his home. 
When he was driven mad by his own incapacities, by 
his own failure, some evil power lurking within 
goaded him into making bad worse, rather than re- 
main inactive. Life could not be stationary; if it 
was not to be lifted up, it should be driven down. 
He threw his mind more than ever into his work. 
He made the most he could of it. It employed him 
for the greater part of each day. Three evenings a 
week, sometimes more, he set apart for it. 

His boy was old enough now to walk out proudly 
with his father. Sandy was a manly little lad, and 
David delighted in him. Secretly, Valerie fostered 
the love between father and son. 

She had given up the skin-flinting and the mopr 
ing of her days of penance. The debts would soo^i 


236 


Flower and Thorn 


be paid now ; she need not brood over her sins. She 
set herself to the duty of enjoyment, of gaiety, of 
mixing with her fellows, and of taking such pleasure 
as lay in her 'path — the pleasure was not much to 
boast of. 

David’s body began to sympathise openly with his 
mind; he ailed generally; he became a martyr to 
headache. He took a fortnight’s leave at his doc- 
tor’s advice, and went to stay with his mother at 
Bath, to get the change which had been recom- 
mended to him. It was not suggested that his wife 
and son should accompany him, and he went alone. 

A brief absence makes the heart grow fonder, and 
David, idle and lonely, getting rid of headache in 
that beautiful city of gentle memories, thought that 
perhaps it might not be impossible to get quit of 
heart-ache at the same time. 

It was here, upon this shady seat in the leafy Park, 
that Valerie and he had once sat together, and had 
talked so long and gaily. Side by side they had 
wandered in the Abbey; it was there, through the 
painted Abbey window, that the sun had thrown a 
sudden beam which had caught on Valerie’s bright 
hair ; the sun had shone out of an overcast sky ; he 
had been glad to see it, and had taken the light and 
brightness as an omen of his future life. He could 


Flower and Thorn 


237 


remember how Valerie had spoken on that day, how 
she had looked upon another; he thought of her 
continually. 


“Lord, keep our memories green — in verdure clad.” 


He would write to Valerie. Write his soul down. 
She could reject or accept what he had to give; she 
could take it or leave it; but she should believe and 
see that it was there. He could write truth, such 
as he could not speak. Of late she had fenced 
with any earnestness on his part. Face to face an 
explanation seemed hopeless. His tongue blun- 
dered. 

Lately, Valerie had not seemed to fret over their 
estrangement; her light manner had revived; she 
had not lost her knack of charm ; her popularity had 
not waned. David did not go with her, here, there 
and everywhere, as had been once his wont ; she went 
mostly alone. He heard her laugh over and narrate 
her doings as if she had zest for the society and 
junketings of the neighbourhood. 

But, in repose, there was an almost sullen sadness 
in the eyes he knew so well. Her movements were 
listless, her lips drooped, if no interest from without 
roused her. Of course she was sometimes restless 


238 


Flower and Thorn 


as a child, frivolous as a Frenchwoman; her mood 
varied from hour to hour. David never knew 
whether to be nettled by her liveliness, remorseful 
over her glumness, or alarmed at her frivolity. 

He would write to her ; he would certainly write. 

His mother had found Valerie out long ago ; she 
had disappointed this captious person during a fatal 
long leave that the family from Leigh had spent in 
Bath. 

Sandy had not been of an age to respect his grand- 
mother’s delicate health ; it was decreed Sandy was 
spoilt. 

The opprobrious epithet clung to Sandy, harassed 
his career amongst his relations as does the pro- 
verbial bad name given to the dog. 

Every day David heard that Sandy was spoilt, 
and that Sandy’s mother was to blame. “Poor Va- 
lerie ; what can one expect, David, with such a bring- 
ing up as hers ? She had the worst kind of spoiling ; 
she was neglected and indulged by turn. The spoil- 
ing of love is less deleterious.” 

David listened, his heart yearning for the sinners 
far away. 

He was acting the part of a well-brought-up son. 
He banged no doors ; he smoked amongst beetles in 
the kitchen ; he walked abroad by his mother’s chair ; 


Flower and Thorn 


239 


he read aloud to her; all day he did those things 
which he did not want to do, and his thoughts wan- 
dered more and more to the home in which he was 
master. 

By virtue of inheritance, he respected his mother’s 
headaches nowadays. Standing below his father’s 
picture, he looked long at the manly face, at the 
clear, keen eyes, at the firm, strong mouth there de- 
picted ; then his glance fell, and passed to the peevish, 
lined old woman who sat in the light of a curtained 
window. 

All his life, from his boyhood until now, he had 
secretly accused his mother ; he had told himself that 
for the separation between his parents, she was to 
blame; that the evil arose from the foibles of her 
character alone. 

Live and learn. 

A fatal clash of temperament, an adverse fate, the 
cruel finger of circumstance, had perhaps hands in 
his parents’ calamity. 

With a chilling pang at heart, he recollected that 
these tormenting headaches of his. were inherited. 
He shuddered at the doctrine of heredity. Had some 
clink of temper, some stiffness of neck, some deadly 
hardness of heart, some rift in genial nature fallen to 
his share of inheritance, such as consumes all happi- 


240 


Flower and Thorn 


ness within and around its owner? David was get- 
ting the blues. He would write, write nobly, hum- 
bly, fully. Poor Valerie. He would write. 

But ten days of David’s leave had passed, and the 
letter had not gone. It had been written, torn up, re- 
written and rejected many times. 

Daily telegraphic communications went to Leigh ; 
items of news with conventional tails and headings, 
and all the love to Sandy. Daily letters, founded on 
David’s pattern sheet, returned from Valerie, all the 
love again in their case from Sandy. 

The last two days at Bath were made more toler- 
able for David by the unexpected arrival of Mrs. 
Mallam; she paid a couple of days’ annual visit to 
her Aunt Carrie, and she judiciously chose the time 
when Mrs. Guthrie had a visitor, and offered her 
own company. 

It was ridiculous of a man to be homesick ; it was 
absurd to find how glad David felt at seeing a face 
from home; he rejoiced over the arrival of Jane, he 
talked to her of his belongings, he began to enjoy 
himself; the days no longer lagged. He even 
grumbled when Jane took over-long about the shop- 
ping, by which a great deal of her time was en- 
grossed. He took her to the Abbey ; he sat with her 


Flower and Thorn 


241 


in that special seat of hallowed memories. He shook 
off his blues and was no longer moody. 

Mrs. Mallam was a genial comrade who soothed 
all emotions, levelled life, expected nothing as far 
as he knew, and relished every small pleasure that 
came her way. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“Let her know her place, 

She is the second, not the first.” 

— In Memoriam. 

Valerie, alone at home with her son, was not 
making much of her freedom; its effect upon her 
was not stimulating; on the contrary, it seemed to 
depress her. She ignored her social engagements, 
cancelling such as she had not forgotten, and imper- 
illed any elementary morals that Sandy possessed, 
by devoting to him her time and attention. 

He was a boy of tenacious mind, and had definite 
desire to rule ; he worked his white slave fairly hard 
just now. 

“We’ll go and see jackdaws to-day, muvver.” 

It was a sunny, summer morning, very hot even in 
the shady house, and Valerie did not jump at 
Sandy’s suggestion ; she threw cold water. 

“Nurse can take you to see them presently, but it 
is very hot.” 

Sandy had a passion for jackdaws; he wished for 
the society of jackdaws at all hours of the day and 
night. 

“Faver takes me his own self every time when I 


Flower and Thorn 


243 


asks him. When he gets to the Fedral, nurse won’t 
never stay.” 

“If I take you, Sandy, if I dress and take you to 
see these jackdaws, you must hold my hand all the 
way through the streets.” 

“I will walk close to you, muvver ; but f aver don’t 
hold my hand. Soldiers march straight; they don’t 
hold no hands ; men don’t want no hands.” 

“It is safer to hold hands, dear. Everyone is safer 
if they hold hands. We can’t go straight quite 
alone.” 

“I can. I’m like my faver.” 

She looked at him with her partial anxious, ten- 
der mother-eyes. 

Like his father? Nay, like him in little but the 
firm set of the baby mouth and the keen, straight 
stare of the sagacious baby eyes. Sandy was a fair 
child, with a peachy skin and dewy lips, with bright, 
flaxen hair, and eyes brown, soft, deep-set as his 
mother’s. He was straight as a pine ; he held himself 
as if he had been drilled, for soldiering — over and 
beyond the jackdaws — was his passion. Within the 
radius of their capacities, he and his nurse missed 
no military spectacle. 

“Sandy,- we shall meet motor-cars, and bicycles, 
and prancing horses all the way to the Cathedral,” 


244 Flower and Thorn 

she proceeded, firmly; “we must hold hands if 
we go.” 

“You may hold my hand in danjous places then,” 
yielding; “that will be awful safe.” 

Valerie weakly allowed this compromise, and was 
then hustled off at once to dress. The verb to wait 
is not conjugated by the young. 

Mother and son started off as fair and fresh as the 
summer morning. Sandy, stripped of his blue pina- 
fore, was wearing a white tunic, belted like a soldier, 
a shady straw hat set a little to one side on his light 
curls. His mother rustled and creaked in a cotton 
frock fresh from the wash. It was of pale lemon 
colour; her hat shaded with it, and in her ears she 
wore blue turquoises. She was always an effective 
person; her crimps and frills became her. Some 
trick of touch, a tilt, a fold, a bow, a knot, a pin, did 
the thing, but how was it done? Who can describe 
the art? But there the product is for those who 
appreciate such vanities to mark and to admire. 

The dangers of the streets through which the pair 
passed were heating and exhausting; Sandy looked 
at everything, was interested in everything ; he never 
ceased talking ; he held hands on rare occasions. He 
laid out a penny to vast advantage, wearing out the 
patience of the shop attendant in the doing. He 


Flower and Thorn 


245 


patted tradesmen’s horses at shop doors ; he flattened 
his nose at windows, and wanted to follow up each 
passing attraction. 

Valerie was pale and tired long before they 
reached the cool Cathedral yard. They halted in the 
shade of one of the venerable elms growing there, 
and Sandy stared up into the tree. 

“This rook sort of jackdaw is clever, muv- 
ver ; when the trees get so old that they blows down, 
them sort of kind of jackdaws don’t build no nests; 
they go away, faver says.” 

“Rats and rooks desert falling houses,” said 
Valerie; “less shrewd animals stick to their homes, 
Sandy.” 

“Don’t understand,” said Sandy. “Am all birds 
jackdaws ? Am a duck a jackdaw ?” 

“You are a lover, Sandy; you have only room for 
one black feather in your foolish little heart.” 

“Come on round to the Fedral door, muvver, and 
see them; there’s lots and lots of jackdaws sitting on 
the funny stone men up high.” 

At this moment his mother was accosted by an 
acquaintance; the two grown-ups, to Sandy’s dis- 
gust, began to talk; he was a jealous comrade, with 
no tolerance for a rival, and whilst his guardian 
chatted he softly slipped away. 


246 


Flower and Thorn 


When Valerie had bidden the offending lady 
good-bye, and was free again, she turned to address 
Sandy, and found that he had disappeared. She 
hurried on and soon saw him in front of her, but 
some hundred yards ahead, standing out on the 
road, his head in the air, his attention riveted by 
a row of jackdaws which were perched on the 
crumbling saints that adorned the west end of the 
Cathedral. 

As she advanced, a carriage turned the sharp cor- 
ner of the road beyond Sandy, and a fast-trotting 
pair of greys came up the narrow way upon the 
absent child. 

The driver of the carriage yelled. Valerie darted 
forward, tore out upon the road, caught Sandy by 
the arm, and in the twinkling of an eye dragged him 
out of danger. 

“Good God ! that was a narrow shave.” 

It was the Wetherals’ stanhope which had so 
nearly done for Master Sandy, and Rupert Weth- 
eral, who was driving it, got down from the box 
looking white and concerned at what might have 
been a nasty accident. 

He laid an unsteady hand on the child’s shoulder. 

“You were within an ace, young man, of being 
run over,” he said. “It was your fault, but your 


Flower and Thorn 


247 


mother would never have forgiven me as long as she 
lived.” 

“Wouldn’t she?” rather impressed, but with a 
wandering eye that still hankered after the jack- 
daws. “I hold hands in danjous places, don’t I, 
mummy ?” 

“We don’t always agree as to what is dangerous,” 
said his mother, laughing, but speaking with white 
lips. 

“Sandy, you have frightened your mother very 
much.” 

“Have I ?” looking at her, and allowing his little 
brown hand to be squeezed tightly in her cold fin- 
gers. “She’s often frightened ; she’s afraid of cows ; 
they are not never allowed on the pavement, I told 
her, but she’s afraid all the same. Faver and me are 
not frightened ever, except when Mrs. Timms’ dogs 
growls very loud at my legs. I don’t like that, but 
faver says soldiers aren’t never cowards.” 

“Let me give you and this young man a lift home, 
Mrs. Guthrie. You don’t look much up to walking. 
Though that scare was over in a moment, it was bad 
while it lasted. Alice drove over a child about three 
years ago. I was with her. The youngster was not 
hurt, but I’ve never got my nerve back. When I 
saw your boy there I was sort of paralysed ; if I’d 


248 


Flower and Thorn 


known it was Sandy I could not have been knocked 
sillier. Listen, Sandy ; would you like to drive home 
with me? Ask your mother if you may. I will take 
you if you may come.” 

“We’ll come,” said Sandy, graciously. “We 
would like it very much, wouldn’t we, muvver? 
Your grey horses prance and go so fast. Can I hold 
the whip?” 

Mrs. Guthrie, nothing loth, was marshalled to the 
seat on the driver’s left hand ; Sandy sat on her knee, 
dumb with enjoyment, so that his elders’ dialogue 
was not pierced by the shrill inconsequence of his 
prattle. 

“I thought I should meet you at Rexford, Mrs. 
Guthrie, or at Abingdon,” Mr. Wetheral said. “You 
have been nowhere. What has been wrong?” 

“Nothing but laziness.” 

“You haven’t been ill?” 

She shook her head. 

“It isn’t always easy to get about; one wants a 
vast amount of energy. We have no cart, you 
know.” 

“But I never see Guthrie, either.’^ 

“He is away just now.” 

“He is working them all very hard ; I’m told of no 


Flower and Thorn 


249 


end of extra work; shooting, drilling all over the 
country ; he is waking the men up, I can tell you.” 

“Is he?” said his wife, looking thoughtful. “He 
is always busy in the summer; the outlying places 
are so far away sometimes. His appointment will be 
up in the summer.” 

“So I heard. What does he do then ?” 

Valerie looked at her son. 

“I don’t quite know.” 

“His battalion is in India. How shall you like 
India?” 

“I shan’t go to India,” quickly. “I hate heat.” 

Mr. Wetheral liked to hear the news; he was 
always inquisitive ; in this case he was interested ; he 
thought deeply. 

“It is a dog’s life,” he said softly, “following a 
baggage wagon.” 

“It is a dog’s life which most women envy,” 
lightly, with a baffling smile. “I am only joking. 
Of course a soldier’s wife goes to India if — she is 
wanted there.” 

Mr. Wetheral was conscious of having blundered ; 
he was never reserved, and he was too great a talker 
to be discreet; he took most of his friends into his 
confidence; to Valerie he was amazingly outspoken. 

“My wife talks of going to India next year ; some 


250 


Flower and Thorn 


of her people are going, and she would like the trip. 
This winter she is off to Egypt; she can’t be still; 
she’s as restless as a swallow; she is never at home. 
England is good enough for me; I’m staying down 
here; I’m fond of the place.” 

The listener’s expression changed, growing gen- 
tle and sympathetic. 

‘T’m not restless, either,” Valerie said, nodding 
her head. ‘T like to stay where I am. I hate 
change.” 

“You are faithful.” 

“No, not faithful ; merely cowardly. I am always 
afraid that any change may turn out for the worse. 

I fear I might be even less well off elsewhere than I 
am here at home.” 

“I don’t believe that is the only reason.” 

“It is the principal reason.” 

It was pleasant to Valerie to have her words 
analysed, weighed, treated seriously; marital ears 
are not so attentive. An imperial position is at- 
tractive; Mr. Wetheral as a courtier made himself 
agreeable. 

“There’s a butterfly in that garden,” cried Sandy, 
suddenly. “Stop, stop a moment, please.” Baring 
his yellow curls to the sun, he tore off his wide- 
brimmed hat and thrust it over the back of the car- 


Flower and Thorn 


251 


riage into the groom’s hands. “Will you please run 
and catch that lovely white butterfly ?” breathlessly. 
“Run quick, quick! Dear me, it’s rising up; it’s 
going over the wall! It is no good now; it’s too 
late.” 

“Sandy,” said his mother, reprovingly. 

“My dear boy, we can’t stop to catch every butter- 
fly on the road. Life is not long enough. There 
are lots of butterflies at my place. Will you come 
up there and catch them? Catch as many as you 
like.” 

“I’ll come now,” said Sandy, cordially, “if muv- 
ver likes me to.” 

“Bring him to-morrow, Mrs. Guthrie; bring him 
to lunch ; Alice will be delighted ; she likes children. 
I’ll send for you, and I will send you back. Any 
time you like to fix, the carriage shall be at your 
service.” 

“You are very kind.” 

“Muvver, can we go?” 

She hesitated. 

“Sandy,” said his genial host, laying a trap, “I 
have a brace of jackdaws, only they are white ones ; 
and I have some gold fish and a fountain ; a garden 
full of flowers, which you can pick just as you like. 
Will you try and come ?” 


252 


Flower and Thorn 


“Muvver, you can come, can’t you? He really 
and truly wants us to come,” urged Sandy. 

“It is very kind, but ” she demurred. “I 

hardly know whether it is possible.” 

“It will be kind of you if you will come. I want 
Sandy.” 

“Sandy would enjoy it very much. I have some 
engagement. I could put it off.” 

“Of course you could. That is very good of you. 
Then you’ll come to lunch? Do make it lunch.” 

“To tea, if you please.” 

“I do please very much ; I only want you to come. 
You shall be fetched at a quarter to four.” 

“We are getting near our home now,” put in 
Sandy, addressing the last speaker. “It isn’t a long 
drive. I’m so sorry.” 

“So am I,” answered his host, gravely. “But we 
shall meet to-morrow, Sandy; that is something for 
us to dream about. And the drive to my house will 
be very long. I think it very long sometimes.” 

“But I don’t like very long anythings. Muvver 
and I get so tired, don’t we?” 

“Yes, we do. At least, I know you do.” 

Sandy, in a thoughtful mood, bid the Wetheral 
equipage farewell. He shook hands absently with 
Mr. Wetheral, lifted his face to kiss the groom who 


Flower and Thorn 


253 


helped his descent to the ground, and then ran off 
with a sudden eager impulse of expectation into his 
home. 

When Mrs. Guthrie entered her little drawing- 
room she found Sandy on the floor engrossed with 
a horse and cart. 

“You have been an awful long time talking,” he 
said, “and I wanted you to mend my trace.” 

“Why did you not go to nurse ?” 

“I likes you best. You ties better. And I won’t 
go to that gentleman’s house at all. I never heard of 
no white jackdaws; jackdaws isn’t white. And I 
don’t like werry, werry long drives; they make me 
sleepy, and I won’t do it at all. And you can’t go 
neither, ’cos I shan’t.” 

“Sandy, it is time for you to get your midday 
nap. Go up to nurse.” 

“I’ll ask faver whether jackdaws can be white, 
’cos I don’t think they can. When is faver coming 
home?” 

“The day after to-morrow.” 

“How long is that ?” 

“Forty-eight hours. Don’t be naughty; go to 
bed.” 

“I’m not naughty. I’m going by-and-bye. 

I want to talk first. Muvver, will you listen?” 


254 


Flower and Thorn 


“No, dear, I won’t. I’m going to write a letter.” 

“To faver, I s’pose.” 

“No, to Mr. Wetheral, to tell him that his jack- 
daws are black after all, and that he lives so far off 
from us that we can’t go and see him.” 

“Are you sorry ?” There was a note of anxiety in 
the child’s voice. “Did you want to go? Are you 
disappointed ?” 

“No,” quickly. “I did not want to go at all.” 

“The kind man will be disappointed?” inter- 
rogatively. 

“Go to bed, Sandy. It is getting so late.” 

Sandy did as he was bid, and even whilst the 
patter of his feet sounded on the stairs she sat down 
and wrote the promised note to : 

“Dear Mr. Wetheral, 

“My imperious son” (she wrote), “quite for- 
eign to the rights of his sex, has elected to change 
his mind. No bird that is black can be white, he 
says, and he declines to believe in your jackdaws. 
Moreover, you laid stress on the vast distance be- 
tween us, and he argues that it is too long a journey 
to take, even in search of fountains and flowers. 

“This allegorical letter means that we are afraid 


Flower and Thorn 


255 


we must decline your kind invitation for to-morrow 
after all. Many thanks all the same. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Valerie Guthrie.'^ 

She had blotted her note ; it lay between the sheets 
of blotting paper, and she was directing the en- 
velope, when the arrival of the midday post with a 
letter from David stayed her hand. She went out 
to the post-box with an odd, sick qualm, half hope, 
half apprehension, with which she daily received his 
correspondence. 

Though at present she was allowed to see only 
the alienated life of her husband, she had just 
lately, half by instinct, by intuition, guessed vaguely 
at his leaning towards happier things. Was she once 
more to be admitted to his confidence, to be quit of 
the ruffled surface life, to get back to the deep, still 
underflow of love upon which she had happily 
glided, and which she would give her life to find 
again. 

She stood with his letter in her hand. Was he 
coming back to this miserable makeshift life of 
theirs? Would his anger last for ever? was it im- 
mortal ? 


256 


Flower and Thorn 


Her moods were trivial ; they could be shivered at 
a blow. Was his mood hard as granite, that only a 
blast could shatter it? 

She broke the envelope, read the first few words 
with a quick smile on her lips. 

‘‘Dearest Val, 

“I shall be back by the express. I wonder 
if you can guess how glad I shall be to see you both ? 
I have been homesick. It isn’t so very long since 
you and I were here at Bath together; not so long 
that I have forgotten. You will try to remember, 
too, dear Val, won’t you? 

“Till Friday, good-bye. 

“As ever yours, 

“David Guthrie. 

“Jane has just come in; she won’t travel down 
till Saturday. By-the-bye, in case I forget, she says 
you can get that Welsh mutton at Reed’s, in Fore 
Street.” 

It was no good to argue, no good to reason ; noth- 
ing was any good. Valerie was jealous of the 
woman who inspired that fatal postscript. She 
threw David’s letter down and stood in thought. 

Jane’s wide mouth, robust cheeks, her solidity, her 


Flower and Thorn 


f57 

lack of grace, were all alike outweighed by her 
housekeeping genius. Welsh mutton swamped every 
attraction in Mrs. Guthrie. 

What were scents and crimps, and a bent for 
fashion, and a talent for the choosing of raiment, in 
opposition to a series of variable breakfasts, at- 
tractive dinners, flanked by low books of trades- 
people ? 

Valerie bent her head; she was worsted, and 
though she told herself at first that her rival was to 
be despised, in her heart of hearts she envied Jane 
as a better woman than herself, as more capable of 
bringing comfort and peace into the life of the man 
she loved. 

Jane was interested in politics, read all the papers, 
had an even temper, could cook well, and talk sensi- 
bly; she never depended on the attraction of sex; 
she possessed an accurate memory, a just mind. 
Alas, poor Valerie! that David should have awak- 
ened so late in the day to Jane’s wondrous advan- 
tages. 

Valerie was jealous; reasonable or unreasonable, 
she was jealous. 


CHAPTER XV. 


'‘Hath any wronged thee? Be bravely revenged. Slight it, 

And the work’s begun; forgive it, and ’tis finished.” 

— Quarles. 

David was at home again. It was the morning 
after his return; he sat before his wife’s writing- 
table writing a letter; she was seated in the chair by 
the sunny window, reading a book. For an hour 
past dead silence had reigned in the room, an un- 
broken peace which had grown oppressive. 

“Valerie.” 

“Yes.” 

“Here is a letter of yours in your case unsent.” 

“Is there? To whom?” 

“To ‘dear Mr. Wetheral.’ Why were you writing 
to him?” 

“Read it, David, and then you can tear it up, 
please.” 

“What an extraordinary obscure letter.” 

“It doesn’t matter whether it was obscure or not, 
for it did not go.” 

“Why did it not go?” 


Flower and Thorn 


259 


“I changed Sandy’s mind for him, and I took him 
to the Wetherals.” 

“So Sandy told me.” 

“He enjoyed himself very much.” 

“So he said.” 

Valerie returned to her book; David’s pen began 
to scratch softly again; she looked up quickly when 
he broke the silence by a sudden inconsequent 
question. 

“Do you remember that once you drowned a 
parasol, and Wetheral saved it?” 

“Of course I remember.” 

“Don’t forget what I told you then, for what I 
meant then I mean now.” 

“It is your turn to be obscure.” 

“I will be plain. I have trust in you. I am not 
afraid of you ; but you shall not for any reason under 
the sun become a prey for people’s tongues. I can 
and will protect my wife’s name, if such a curse 
should come upon me that it should want protec- 
tion.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“You mean that while you were away I should 
have stayed at home, dreaming of you and your 
headaches,” with a levity that blunted his earnest- 


26 o 


Flower and Thorn 


ness. “People must talk of something; no doubt 
they talk of us. Long ago they have ferreted out 
the fact that we find matrimony laborious, but that 
is too common to be worth gossiping about.” 

The bitterness of her cool voice wounded him 
like a knife. Again the heavy silence fell in the 
room, through which a pen scratched and a leaf 
now and again fluttered. At length David closed 
the writing-case and got up. He stood looking 
down at his reading wife; she raised her eyes to his, 
scrutinising the honest face above her, until he 
grew conscious of her scrutiny, and she saw that 
he did so. 

“You look well,” she said, coldly. “A change 
was what you wanted.” 

He did not answer; he turned away. A change 
— it was a change that had come upon him. God 
knew how unbearably bitter to his angry heart. 

“I am late; I must be off to the barracks,” he 
said, and went out of the room. 

Then Valerie threw her book down and got up, 
wringing her hands. 

Hope was gone; she had herself to curse for this 
more wretched aspect of her life, and she was 
mutinously aware that it was so. 

They 'did not get on. 


Flower and Thorn 


261 


Why should she kick so unceasingly against the 
common bramble pricks that lay in every path? 

Ah, it might be commonplace, ordinary, inevit- 
able, to jar along the matrimonial road, but it hurt. 
God only knew how it hurt. And the pain was like 
a toothache — acute, a spoiler of life, but not so rare 
• as to gain compassion. Of self-pity she had a store 
and to spare — unwholesome, enervating self-pity 
to blind her faculty of sight, of judgment. Self- 
pity is a dangerous luxury in life. 

With this mental toothache gnawing the heart 
out of man and wife, the Guthries’ life dragged on 
through wretched days and months. 

They were not even tormented by the high pitch 
of any passionate quarrels. Now and again the 
clouds with which their domestic sky was darkened 
would gather and break in a tumult of angry pain. 
Then, shamed by the uncontrolled outburst, fol- 
lowed a calm. Alas, a surface calm only, but a calm 
which for a while promised better things. 

Mrs. Guthrie wore no willow, and Captain 
Guthrie did not carry his heart on his sleeve; only a 
close observer could detect that this man and wife 
had made a hash of matrimony, and chafed against 
its obligations. 

The date was drawing near when David’s ap- 


262 


Flower and Thorn 


pointment would end. Separation approached 

them. His wife, tormented by the thousand tor- 
tuous windings of a jealous mind, persuaded herself 
that his banishment to India would be welcome to 
her. She wanted him away; she wanted him away 
out of reach. She should not be near him, but 
then neither would this practical, clever, cultivated 
house- wife, Jane, who had weaned him from her. 

If clouds lay on the Guthrie horizon, so too the 
clouds gathered on public affairs. 

A rumour of war reached the country, permeat- 
ing it from end to end. This rumour disquieted 
none but the better informed; the public discarded 
the bare suggestion of such a possibility. 

Valerie discussed the subject with Mr. Wetheral. 

“No such luck,” he said; “the Boers know bet- 
ter; they are not such fools. You look anxious; 
are you thinking about your husband?” 

She answered: “No,” quickly, “my husband is 
going out to India.” 

“He won’t join the route march to Pretoria, 

then, ” smiling; “but you need not be afraid, Mrs. 
Guthrie, if you are ambitiods of service for your 
husband, he is more likely to see it on the Indian 
frontier. There will be no war in South Africa, 
take my word for it.” 


Flower and Thorn 


263 


His word was never over trustworthy, but Va- 
lerie swallowed the vague misgivings which the 
rumour had aroused, and the days in the Priory 
Terrace lodgings grated ignorantly on to their 
finish. 

There was a streak of the masculine mind in Mrs. 
Mallam; she lacked that faculty of quick intuition 
common to her sex, and though it was impossible 
not to be aware that Valerie’s mind and manner to 
her were neither cordial nor cousinly, she did not 
trouble herself to ferret out the cause thereof, nor 
to break through the attitude of formal civility 
which had usurped her former intimacy with Va- 
lerie. Once or twice Jane had tried to break down 
the barrier which had been erected, but she had not 
been successful, and of late she had “kept her foot 
from her neighbour’s house,” and given up any at- 
tempts at a revival of friendship. 

But one morning in September, Valerie heard a 
quick, heavy step treading the passage leading to 
her precincts, and lifting up her head, she listened 
with a quick apprehension to the tread of her ap- 
proaching visitor. 

“Mrs. Mallam, if you please, ’m,” was an- 
nounced. 

Valerie rose, becoming instantly aware from 


264 


Flower and Thorn 


Jane’s face that she had come with some set pur- 
pose to see her. 

The women kissed one another; they were both 
well — the weather was changeable — the boy was 
out — it was ages since they had met — they both 
seemed afraid to quit their trivial conversation for a 
time; then Jane abruptly broke into the dialogue 
with her preface to the coming scene. She spoke 
in a soft, unnatural tone, with her wide open eyes 
full on Valerie. 

‘T want to talk to you, Valerie.” 

Valerie trembled. 

“Yes, Jane. I am listening.” 

“Has David come back from London?” 

“He came back the day before yesterday.” 

“Valerie, he looks — ill.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“Everyone thinks so.” 

“I am sorry to hear that.” 

“Everyone is sorry.” 

“He never complains.” 

“His face complains; it speaks for him.” 

There was a pause. 

“Valerie, do not be angry. Try not to be 
angry. You must listen. I have come here to talk 
to you.” 


Flower and Thorn 


265 


“Think, Jane, before you speak.” 

“Do you think that I have not thought? I have 
thought, and I have — prayed before I came here — 
it was not easy to come. Harm is done by silence, 
Valerie, irreparable harm.” 

“I have no belief in the virtue of speech. Silence 
is best.” 

“You are wrong. Expression is a great good. 
To know all is to forgive all. How in God’s name 
are you to find truth without expression? Have 
we time to judge a man by his life? We have 
neither wit nor leisure to find out for ourselves a 
character persistently hidden from us. Reserve is 
a curse to our nation. We English are misjudged 
because we do not try, nor wish to express our- 
selves. When we feel we should speak, speak out 
so that we can be judged justly.” 

“Speak, Jane, then. What is it? What do you 
want of me?” 

“Valerie, open your eyes when David comes 
home to you, and look at him. Look at him, and 
see what you are doing.” 

“What am I doing?” 

“You are doing wrong; you are doing him 
wrong. I must speak. I will speak. You took an 
oath to make him happy; you know the words. 


266 


Flower and Thorn 


What woman’s memory yet was ever short enough 
to forget such words as those? and you have 
broken that oath of yours. Look at David and see 
what you have done. Who is to blame? Who is 
in fault? How am I to judge between you? Hu- 
man as you both are, who is the perfect one? But 
you are a woman, it is to you, to you that I can 
speak.” 

The hearer sat pale, motionless, with her eyes 
upon the ground. 

Jane spoke with a sudden gust of passion that 
was so new in her as to change her very personality. 

“Jane.” 

“Let me say what I have to say, and have done 
with it; then I will go once and for all. You are 
driving David to the devil; he is not weak; he will 
not drink, nor gamble, nor break faith with you; 
but for all that you are spoiling him, body and 
soul. You could have done anything with him, 
and you did nothing. His happiness was in your 
hands and you threw it away.” 

Valerie essayed to speak. 

“To talk is easy,” she stammered, “but to live — 
is — hard.” 

“Hard,” repeated the other, quickly. “God only 
knows how hard. When I look round and see how 


Flower and Thorn 


267 


men and women marry, sure of happiness, confi- 
dent of themselves, thinking the dual life of bliss 
comes naturally because they love one another, I 
shiver. I shudder for them.” 

Valerie lifted wide, expectant eyes to her 
cousin’s face. 

“Long patience, steadfast principle, eternal hope, 
wide charity, tears, sacrifice, suffering, those are 
the foundations for a blessed mortal life in this hard 
world.” 

Yet expectant, Valerie held her breath to listen. 

“‘We. will give and take,’ they say, ‘give and 
take.’ But I say, ‘give;’ think only of the giving; 
give all you can. Oh, Valerie, you have the gift 
we all of us desire; you have power. Use it for 
good, for the best, the highest. You can help him 
— you have not helped — you hinder. You can 
soften him if you will.” 

“I can do nothing,” Valerie cried suddenly, “I 
can do — nothing.” 

Down Jane’s permanently red cheeks tears fell, 
her eyes were blinded with them. 

“Try, Valerie; try, before it is too late. Try be- 
cause of the boy; try because of your early life with 
David, because of our mortal weakness, because of 
the shortness of time, because — because of death.” 


268 


Flower and Thorn 


“He doesn’t care for me,” said Valerie in a 
hollow whisper. “It is no good, he does not care.” 

“He cares for no one else; you know it; he cares 
for no one, nothing else.” 

“He does,” said Valerie, hoarsely; “he cares for 
you; he should have married you; our marriage was 
a mistake; you would have made him happy; you 
should have been his wife.” 

Mrs. Mallam stared, her tears lying incongru- 
ously upon her astonished eyes. 

“Valerie, are you mad?” 

“It is so natural. You are a better woman than 
I. You are clever, and he tells you everything.” 

“Valerie, do you mean to say that you seriously 
believe that David ever in his life cast a thought be- 
yond a practical one to me — to me — to a coarse, 
ugly cook of a woman like me?” 

All Jane’s emotions had been swept away by the 
preposterousness of Valerie’s suggestion; her in- 
credulous attitude was beginning to take effect. 
Valerie, ashamed, and yet defiant, nodded her 
head. 

“He likes you best,” she said, but not con- 
vincingly. 

“I suppose you mean what you say?” 


Flower and Thorn 269 

“Do you think I should say such a thing if I did 
not mean it?” 

Jane thought for a moment in silence, staring at 
Valerie in blank dismay. 

“You were jealous of me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you now?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“No one has ever been jealous of me, Valerie. 
You, you, to be jealous of such an unattractive 
woman as I am. From his youth up I have been 
fond of David, but not in the way you are fond of 
him. You are a beautiful woman; your ways 
cannot be my ways. The love I have gained in my 
life has never been spontaneous; I have won it 
slowly, laboriously. David never thinks of any 
woman as a woman but you, and, thank God, my 
temptations do not lie in wandering fancies or sen- 
timental preferences; my heart is not soft, not soft 
by any means. I came to speak out, and I am 
speaking more than I thought.” 

Valerie caught her breath, she could not answer; 
she was looking at Jane. 

“Valerie, I don’t feel as much as some people. I 
was born thick-skinned and blunt-hearted. My 


^JO 


Flower and Thorn 


own people, who might have taught me tenderness, 
died, you see, and I got into the world through a 
hardening school — dependence. 1 always wanted 
to be happy; when I met my husband, he was wear- 
ing the willow for another woman. We married, I 
was a pis-aller to him, he to me meant independ- 
ence. But there are many pairs who marry for love, 
and who like each other less than we do. Facts 
like these turned me cynical about sentiment.” 

Jane paused, and Valerie, watching close, saw a 
wave of pain pass over her face before she spoke 
again. 

“I don’t often talk of myself; I shirk; there is not 
much to say, and I’m British, and our love of re- 
serve is a national passion, but I want you to under- 
stand. I must explain. I told you how much I 
always tried to be happy, and worked for my own 
happiness. Then — then you remember, don’t you — 
three years after I married that we — we lost our 
little child? I can see her as she lay in my arms.” 
Jane’s lips contorted in speaking. “I can see her as 
she lay in my arms and looked up at me, and — died. 
I have had a cold spot somewhere in my heart 
where the warmth should be ever since.” 

Valerie shivered in the silence that followed. 

“When David talked to me, and asked my ad- 


Flower and Thorn 


271 


vice,” Jane proceeded, recovering her composure, 
“it was always done to save you; always to save 
you. I was useful; it was to be of use I wanted. 
I was a reference, nothing more. How you could 
ever have been so insane as to dream that David 
thought of me, except as conducive to your advan- 
tage I cannot comprehend. Many, many an hour 
I have sat and talked of you. No man was ever 
more completely in love with his wife than David.” 

She spoke always in the hopeless tense of the 
past. 

“I am very unhappy, Jane.” 

“I know you are. So is he.” 

“What can I do?” 

“Do? You know better than I.” 

“He is changed; you said so. You know it.” 

“You have hardened him. (We are of the same 
blood, he and I; he, too, can harden.) Soften him. 
You don’t want sentiment nor passion, but truth 
between you too; naked truth; a patient friendship, 
a high and patient friendship, Valerie.” 

Suddenly the door opened, and in an instant the 
two women had 'become composed as convention 
demands, and called smiles to their faces; feelings 
are tabooed by civilisation- save in a solitude-d- 
deux. 


272 


Flower and Thorn 


The interruption to the scene was caused by the 
arrival of a telegram which the servant handed to 
Mrs. Guthrie. 

Mechanically, hardly glancing at the direction, 
her mind astray, Valerie opened the document. 

With apprehension in her eyes, Jane watched 
her. She watched Valerie read the message; she 
saw her attention arrested; she saw Valerie’s lips 
set, her eyes grow acute. Jane held her breath, 
waiting, divining what was to come. 

*T hardly understand. It is for David, Jane. 
Read it.” 

And Jane read: 

“Can you start on Saturday next to take 
up your duty in South Africa as arranged? 

“Karsley, pro .” 

“It is from the War Office,” said Jane. 

“Yes.” 

Valerie understood now. 

“They want him very soon. Saturday is very 
soon,” she said quickly, her voice harsh. “You 
need not tell me ; I understand. David has volun- 
teered; he talked of it,* and I laughed at the idea of 
war. He said no more, but he did it.” 


Flower and Thorn 


273 


“Yes,” said Jane. 

“He is clever; he is full of resource; he is a good 
officer, he will be glad to go. But they won’t fight. 
Anyone who knows anything of South Africa 
knows that.” 

Jane nodded. The speaker’s eyes were luminous; 
her face extraordinarily white. 

“Did he tell you of this?” Valerie asked suddenly, 
lifting the telegram. 

“Yes.” 

“And you came because you knew?” 

“Yes.” 

Then followed a long silence. 

“I am glad you came,” Valerie said, slowly. “But 
you must go now. I will take this telegram to 
David at the barracks myself. I will take it at once. 
Saturday is so soon.” 

The women kissed one another, and Jane went. 

There were a few minutes wasted by Valerie be- 
fore she took the message to her husband. 

A shadow had fallen suddenly in her path, a 
dense shade which she could not pierce, the end of 
which was out of sight. It drove her down upon 
her knees, in an appalling sense of her own power- 
lessness, of her helplessness, of her impotence. She 


Flower and Thorn 


274 

did not cry, but her thoughts came clear and 
bright — strong words were in her ears : 

“Let us start up and live: here come moments 
that cannot be had again; some few may yet be 
filled with imperishable good.” 

It was late, sorely late, but not too late as yet, 
thank God. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“Only those are crowned and sainted 
Who with grief have been acquainted, 

Making nations nobler, freer. 

In their feverish exaltations, 

In their triumph and their yearning, 

In their passionate pulsations, 

In their words among the nations 
The Prometheus fire is burning.” 

— Longfellow. 

David came out from his office work at the bar- 
racks, bareheaded, at his wife’s summons. 

Alert, erect, with some expectation brightening 
his comely face, he hurried out to meet her. 

He was glad ; she watched him ; his face lightened 
as he read his summons, and she saw that he was 
glad. 

“I brought it at once. I understood how im- 
portant it was,” she said bravely. 

“Thank you.” 

“It is very soon,” she said under her breath. He 
noted her luminous eyes, her extraordinary pallor. 

“You know what it means?” 

“I knew at once. It is very soon, David.” 


2J6 


Flower and Thorn 


“Very; these things are better done quickly. Let 
me think.’’ 

He stood, tall, lean, with acute, keen eyes, 
wrapped in thought. She waited, an odd, dead sense 
of unreality muffling her thoughts. He explained 
nothing; nominally she was in the dark. 

“Val, I must see the Colonel at once; I haven’t a 
moment to spare. I must go to town to-day ; my kit 
has to be got.” 

“Yes.” 

“Go straight back, Val, and put out all my things. 
There is a case in the box-room ; have that brought 
down. I must send some wires ; will you wait whilst 
I write them?” 

“Yes. I will wait here.” 

He went back into the barracks, and was gone for 
some time. She was having a first lesson in what 
that one little word “wait” may signify. 

“I am giving you a lot of trouble,” he said, when 
at length he reappeared with a handful of papers; 
his eyes were excited, but his lips steady. “It is very 
good of you, Val.” 

“Good?” 

Her face quivered ever so slightly, but he saw, and 
• taking her hand held it tightly in his own. 

“I did not tell you, because, don’t you see, it might 


Flower and Thorn 


^77 

have come to nothing? Tm afraid I’ve brought you 
trouble in my time, but don’t make a trouble of this, 
Val. You married a soldier, you know; not a carpet 
soldier, if he can help it.” She smiled at him, and he 
went on : “I heard they wanted men ; my billet here 
is all but up, so I went to the War Office on the 
chance. You don’t fancy India, and I might get a 

decent billet in South Africa. The boy ” there 

was a faint break in his voice, to which she quivered 
in response, “and you might both, if I’m lucky, get 
out to me before six months are over. It is a ripping 
climate.” 

“The boy and you.” 

Blessed words of consolation; her doom was not 
sealed. He wanted her still, unworthy though she 
was. She smiled into his face calmly; she would 
not make a scene ; she would think only of him. She 
hurried away on her errands, covering the ground 
quickly in her light, long stride. 

Though she had not known it, Valerie was so 
womanly a woman that sacrifice suited her; self-sur- 
render did not hurt her. Jane had done her good. 

“The more they are beaten, the better they be.” 


With steady pulses, when she reached home she 


2/8 


Flower and Thorn 


set to work to help David. His return was later 
than she had anticipated; all the preparations possi- 
ble were accomplished. Sandy and she were at 
lunch when he came in. 

“That’s right, Val; I hoped you wouldn’t wait. I 
went round to Cowan, who has been out himself. I 
was supplementing my lists. Hulloa, Sandy boy, 
has mother told you that I am off to a far country ?” 

“Muvver told me. I’d like to come, too.” 

“That’s impossible just yet; you must look after 
your mother whilst I am gone, you know, like 
a man.” 

“Are you going over the sea on Saturday?” he 
said, laying his spoon down thoughtfully. “Where 
are you going?” 

“To a hot country, where the wild animals live.” 

“Are you going to kill them ?” 

“No.” 

“Why are you going?” 

“The Queen has sent me.” 

“I don’t like her at all then,” said the child, sud- 
denly. “I don’t want you to go.” 

“A soldier has to go where he is sent. You can’t 
be a soldier if you’re a rebel.” 

“Are you going to fight, faver?” 

“No,” put in his mother, quickly ; “no, no, Sandy, 


Flower and Thorn 


279 


not to fight. He is to go out so as to show some 
ambitious people that they are not stronger than the 
English ; that they will be hurt if they won’t obey.” 

“Don’t understand. Is faver going to be a p’lice- 
man, then?” 

“No, a soldier.” 

“And not a fighting soldier? I thought you was 
a fighting soldier, faver.” 

“I may have to — fight, Sandy,” gravely, “just — a 
—little.” 

A child’s unproportioned imagination jumps 
shortly to great ends. 

“If you gets cannonaded, faver, what shall 
mummy and me do all alone?” 

“Dear Sandy, we are going out to live with father 
as soon as he can have us. We must wait here a 
little; we must be left behind, because I am only a 
woman and you are only a child. It is men like 
father the Queen wants to fight for her and for their 
country, and to work for her and for their country. 
You and I must be busy learning to help, to help — 
father. We must try every moment he is gone to be 
good and brave and true like he is, so some day we 
too can be of use in the world.” 

David looked up at the sound of the clear, steady 
words and met her eyes; he looked at Valerie as he 


28 o 


Flower and Thorn 


had never looked before, smiled, looked again, 
started, rose to his feet. A moment later she was in 
his arms. Close, close he caught her to him, nothing 
between them. Close, close, every lesser thought, 
every human weakness, every marring blemish 
swept cleanly off their love for one another, rolled 
back as if they had never been. 

The shock of coming separation shook the surface 
smattering of things earthly from the good founda- 
tion, and left love bare to the light. God-given love, 
stained, battered, soiled by the sharpness of human 
life, but steadfast, seasoned, immortal. 

They did not speak. They looked into each 
other’s eyes, hand to hand, heart to heart. 

Sandy stared at them ; his mouth dropped ; he laid 
down his spoon and began to cry. 

“I don’t like it at all,” he whimpered. “I’ve done 
my nasty dinner, and please. I’ll go up to my 
nurse.” 

“It’s all right, my man. Look, mother is laugh- 
ing.” 

“I did fink she was crying.” 

“You mustn’t always run away if mother cries; 
you must comfort her.” 

“When I kiss her she cries more.” 

“Ah, but it comforts her.” 


Flower and Thorn 


28 


“Then she shouldn’t cry,” said Sandy, gloomily. 
“Men don’t cry. They are never sorry.” 

“Sandy, you little know. Men are too sorry some- 
times to trust themselves to cry.” 

“That’s the sort of sorry I likes best,” said Sandy, 
brightly. “Please may I have a banana for a treat, 
’cos it’s the last time?” 

He got his fruit, and a rather disturbing embrace 
with it. As the last full hours passed, the little boy 
left off obstructing the work of packing and arrang- 
ing; he grew uneasy and depressed. 

He tried to stuff his favourite toys into his fath- 
er’s portmanteau. Later, he broke open his money- 
box and pressed its contents upon David; he was 
disturbing the composure. His parents were be- 
ginning to wonder how he would take their dual 
departure, when Jane stepped into the breach, and 
wrote to invite him to pay her a visit. 

“Dearest Valerie, 

“I hear you go to town by the 5.50. Lend 
dear Sandy to me till you return. I will take care of 
him as the apple of my eye. I shall be at the station 
to see you off, and will carry him back then, unless I 
hear to the contrary. 

“Yours affectionately, 

“Jane Mallam.” 


282 


Flower and Thorn 


“She is the kindest woman in the world,” said 
David. 

“She is very kind,” said Valerie. “Now Sandy 
will not fret; he loves Jane.” 

When the Guthries got to London there was so 
much to be accomplished before David sailed, that 
husband and wife lived from hour to hour labouring 
steadily at the details of preparation, a dream-like 
unreality overshadowing them in the newness of 
things. 

Their minds were in accord with the cloudy future 
before them, yet were they happier than they had 
been for many a weary day. 

Once, as they were driving back from the stores 
to their rooms in Ebury Street, they for a moment 
discarded business and stared unsteadily into each 
other’s faces. 

“If we could but have our time again, David,” she 
whispered; “if we could have just one year again.” 

“It’s all right now, sweet.” 

“No, no, it can never be quite all right.” 

“Nothing is quite all right down here,” gently; 
“but it’s right enough for me. We have had a diffi- 
cult time, Val. We have fallen out. The devil was 
in it, I think — he is always in at a quarrel — ^but it’s 


Flower and Thorn 283 

come out right at bottom. God knows we love each 
other.” 

“I am so sorry, David. So sorry, and it is too 
late.” 

“Never too late. I’m going to duty, and you — 
you’ve harder duties than mine to face. Things will 
turn up trumps, Val, if we do our duty.” They were 
solemn, earnest, with lined eyes and anxious faces. 
Life was taking a new complexion. 

“David, David, did you know I was jealous? I 
was jealous of Jane.” 

I am afraid he only laughed. It seemed to Va- 
lerie more than a laughing matter, but his laugh 
cheered her. 

“You never minded,” enigmatically, “when I tried 
to turn the tables.” 

“You are transparent, sweet; you weren’t really 
interested ; but for all that, I put my foot down. If I 
did not trust you, Val, I should not leave you.” 

“Oh, David, David, how could I have been so 
wretched? Why did we quarrel? It was most 
miserable; it was terrible.” 

“Fighting is grim,” between his teeth ; “every sort 
is grim. You and I, Val, weren’t enough on guard 
against the squalls. Things don’t go on as they be- 


284 


Flower and Thorn 


gin, and I was clumsy. We are only human; it isn’t 
easy to go straight as a bee-line ; crookedness spoils 
the whole concern. Peace is not as simple as one 
thinks at the start, but God help us when we leave 
off making our quarrels up, and saying we are sorry 
with soft hearts, like the big children that we are.” 

“David, you will never know how sorry I am.” 

“Not know? Don’t I know by what I feel myself? 
No word is strong enough to express how I hate my- 
self for every wretched moment that I have brought 
upon you.” 

Like new lovers, but with the fear of God before 
their eyes, they sat in the solitude of their hansom 
cab. The separation came so soon, so soon. The 
strength of their love forced words from the depths 
of their very souls to comfort, to console, to help, to 
brace one another to face the unknown future. 

Poor Valerie! It was worse, far worse, to be left 
behind. Worse, far worse, to be one of the group of 
inactive, silent people on land, who stood watching 
the ship off, than to be that figure on the busy, mov- 
ing deck, that shrunk and shrunk and was lost to 
her strained eyes so soon. He was a blur, a mist ; he 
was out of her sight; but she watched on till the 
people about her moved off, and she followed them 
with a swelling heart and dry eyes that ached. 


Flower and Thorn 285 

A widow in deep weeds took the world into her 
confidence, weeping, unstrung with wretchedness 
— her son was going to Natal — life was uncertain. 
The world down there and about her had its heart 
full ; it turned a cold shoulder on the woman ; its own 
composure was dear to it, and not to be lightly risked 
just now.' Not so with Valerie; she attached herself 
to the woman ; she listened ; she ignored that offence 
to susceptibilities which such a public display of feel- 
ing incites in this country. She travelled back to 
London in company with the poor creature, full of 
sympathy and interest for this advertised, but gen- 
uine, distress. 

That odd need of work, that beneficial craving for 
the healing of labour, was upon Valerie. That 
miraculous desire, divinely implanted to transact the 
will of God, and to find in its accomplishment rest 
unto the soul, was already hers. 

Valerie reached Leigh late. Jane was on the plat- 
form to welcome her. She saw her home, talking 
fast of Sandy and of any mortal thing except of the 
subject of which their minds were full. 

The first night in her empty home was not easy. 
It took all Valerie’s promises to David to keep her 
fairly calm. A great sense of desolation, from which 
was no escape, overwhelmed her. If human capacity 


286 


Flower and Thorn 


for goodness is limited, human capacity for suffer- 
ing is boundless. 

Her dumb pillow told no tales, and if walls have 
eyes, tongues have not been allotted them, and 
Valerie was not betrayed. British backs, even of 
the slenderest make, have a brave knack of fitting 
themselves to their burden, and Valerie in the time 
to cOme bore hers valiantly. So much so, indeed, 
that some malicious tongues remarked that Mrs. 
Guthrie’s spirit was remarkable, and whispered, 
smiling, that to have “the gude man awa’ ” was not 
always such an unmitigated misfortune after all. 

Mr. Wetheral brought her late news from South 
Africa; secret rumours, many a scrap of political 
hearsay, such as was after his own heart, and any 
item of which she was thirsty to hear. 

Guthrie had volunteered. He chose to leave such 
a woman unprotected. Mr. Wetheral worked him- 
self into a great righteous indignation against such a 
husband. 

When vague public anxiety had taken a definite 
and acute form, Mr. Wetheral was in London, and 
wired down every floating whisper from the front to 
Valerie. It was very kind, but alas ! he himself fol- 
lowing close upon the heels of his latest wire, scat- 
tered her gratitude to him once and for ever. Anxi- 


Flower and Thorn 


287 


ety such as she felt had made her irritable, and when 
she found that her visitor was, as David put it, not 
going straight, when she found that he was making 
love to her, she turned upon him like a vixen, angry 
with herself that her own weakness had led to such 
an intolerable situation. 

“He conies too close 
Who comes to be denied.” 


Every woman knows the Gospel truth of these 
words, and Valerie knew it. 

“Why didn’t you let me alone?” he cried at last in 
his wrath and pain. 

“I am sorry,” she said, more humbly, her con- 
science smiting her. 

“What a word to use, when you have spoilt my 
life, made it a curse, for I must live without you. 
Sorry! You are sorry when a dog dies.” 

“I should not talk like that. I should be a more 
lasting curse if I loved you, Mr. Wetheral. You 
would have to bear all the disadvantages, and none 
of the conveniences of marriage for me. Let me 
speak out ; you rail at marriage ; I have listened, but 
I hated what you said. It is easier to be the wife of 
the future than the wife of the present. Women 
know that, but life is never play.” 


288 


Flower and Thorn 


Her voice was cold, steady, her attitude bracing; 
she did not beg the question. 

The scene left her white to the lips, but he went 
at last. At length the door closed for the last time 
upon him ; it would open no more. 

“If he had asked me long ago I should have mar- 
ried him’’ she cried out loud, with a self-abasement 
that was creditable to a spoilt woman. “I should 
have been his wife; but he didn’t care then. I ex- 
pect, I quite expect he has got into a sort of habit 
of talking like that to half the women he meets, and 
he did not mean as much as I thought.” 

Then she stamped her foot and frowned, and 
looked at her trembling hands, and felt the heavy 
thumping of her heart. 

“He. meant something,” she said, and burst out 
crying. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“Watchman, what of the night? 

Behold, the Light cometh." 

Valerie's empty sitting-room in Priory Terrace 
had a forlorn and dreary air; it was littered with 
newspapers ; the chintzes on the furniture were 
crumpled and disarranged ; a solitary vase with dead 
flowers hurriedly overcrowded into it stood on the 
closed piano. Though it was a bitterly cold day the 
fire was dying in the grate. 

Only about the writing-table were signs of any 
life; letters were piled there, newspaper cuttings lay 
on the blotter, the ink-stand was blotted and stood 
open, a half-knitted neutral-tinted sock beside it. 

On the window sill outside some fluffed-out 
sparrows huddled together, shuffling frozen feet on 
the rime, waiting for the crumbs that fell daily from 
a poor woman’s table. It is the poor who remember 
the crumb-seekers — the fellow-feeling makes the 
wondrous kindness. 

The door of the deserted room opened and Jane 
Mallam came in. Though she was wrapped in furs, 
she shivered, looking sadly about her. 


290 


Flower and Thorn 


The false prophets had been proved mistaken. 
The country was at war, and had been at war for 
months. War gripped at the heart and life of the 
nation; it gripped at the individual life and heart 
of the people. 

Jane Mallam’s verbs were active, seldom passive. 
She came right in, closing the door behind her, and 
she set the room to rights. She made up the fire, she 
carried away the dead flowers, she piled up the news- 
papers into orderly heaps. 

A Graphic lay open on the sofa; she paused to 
look at the page before her. She saw depicted there 
the flower of England. From face to face she 
looked. Splendid young heads — sons so comely, so 
full of life and promise, so young, so well-beloved, 
and — dead, each one of them — dead — dead. Jane 
caught her breath, cleared her throat, shut the paper 
sharply, and then stood still thinking. 

Time passed, the fire revived; Jane was sick of 
waiting, and she rang the bell. 

“Has Mrs. Guthrie come in?” 

“She has not been out. Eve been for her. Master 
Sandy has a cold ; she is upstairs with him.” 

“Nothing much wrong, I hope?” 

“Lor, no’m, but she’s anxious.” 

“Ask her if I shall come up.” 


Flower and Thorn 


291 


Once or twice of late Valerie had declined to see 
anyone, but she did not do so now, and Jane went up. 

Sandy was sitting at a table, playing with a fort. 
Valerie stood by him knitting. 

The news that day had wrung the women’s hearts 
dry. 

“Anything more come down, Jane?” 

“Nothing but what you’ve seen, dear.” 

“It’s pretty bad; it is pretty bad. ‘Very hard 
pressed.’ ” She looked into Jane’s eyes. “Very hard 
pressed.” 

Valerie’s face was drawn and grey; she had aged 
ten years in a few weeks. Now and again tears 
came into her eyes, but they did not overflow their 
boundary. 

“We shall know more soon.” 

“Very soon, dear.” 

“And there is not anything, you said ?” 

“The list from the last fight is out, but nothing 
to do with him.” 

“Is the list long?” 

“Not longer than we feared. The Talbots have 
been in the streets all day, waiting for the list to be 
posted. Their boy is there.” 

“Killed?” 

“Yes.” 


292 


Flower and Thorn 


“Poor things. Poor things.” 

“There is another son, the only other son, who 
has just left Sandhurst, and they have telegraphed. 
General Talbot has telegraphed to know if this lad 
may take his dead brother’s place in the regiment.” 

Jane threw up her head; her voice rang with the 
pride of race, and the heavy heart of the hearer 
swelled and glowed. 

“That is the feeling of our nation, Val. They 
give all, all; they keep nothing back.” 

The sympathetic landlady at this moment hur- 
ried up, panting, with the first edition of the even- 
ing paper. Whilst Valerie read, Jane, with an 
almost feverish tenderness for unconscious Sandy, 
joined in his martial games. 

Lucky Sandy, who knew nothing of stabbed 
pride, sick hearts, biting anxiety, agony of appre- 
hension that probed England to the quick. Who 
knew nothing of the prayers and tears of his coun- 
try; knew nothing of the depth from which rose his 
mother’s cry to God. 

Sandy had been jealously shielded from torment- 
ing fears; he was so quick to see and to be affected 
by anxiety that Valerie had a wholesome incentive 
to calmness in her boy. 


Flower and Thorn 


293 


Day by day, like many another in her land, she 
prayed and strove. 

By righteousness a nation shall be saved. Can 
she do nothing? Nay, but she will. She will add 
a fragment to righteousness; truth, sacrifice, forti- 
tude, patience, are accounted righteous; she will, 
herself, personally herself, she will help. 

Thousands upon thousands in her land lived 
new as she was living, indefinite prayers upon their 
lips, definite, stalwart, conquering love within their 
hearts; and the prayers and the tears of a great na- 
tion rose to God. 

Weeks ago, Sandy’s nurse fell ill and went home. 
Valerie had not replaced her; the work thus in- 
curred had been a solace. 

Sometimes, by the see-sawing of his mother’s 
ways, Sandy would take alarm; when she assumed 
a gaiety, he, in his childish wisdom, distrusted it. 
He was apt to be puzzled and disturbed when she 
was reading the paper, and would put down his 
toys to watch her face. 

“Is it funny or sad?” he would ask, staring. 

Sometimes she would allow, hoarsely, that it was 
rather sad. At other times she would answer 
quickly, with kindling eyes: 


294 


Flower and Thorn 


“It is splendid, Sandy. I am reading of some- 
thing brave, and true, and good. Some day you 
shall read it too.” 

“Aren’t you crying?” 

“If it makes me cry, it is not because it is sad — 
for it is beautiful, the grandest thing in all the 
world, Sandy.” 

“What is the grandest thing in all the world, 
muvver?” 

“Duty,” she answered, solemnly, in a lowered 
voice. “Duty, in peace and in war.” 

“Do you mean fighting?” 

“Yes, fighting. Long, long fighting, Sandy, all 
through your life. Fighting in life and in death.” 

At other times she would look up and find his 
gaze upon her, mute but observant ; then she would 
excuse herself hurriedly. 

“I was quiet, Sandy. I have a little headache.” 

“Does war-time make it ache, muvver? Do you 
sort of hear the firing and the cannons?” 

“Yes, yes, dear, I do.” 

“I wish I could,” enviously. “It’s the big guns 
banging that I like the best of all.” 

So when Sandy’s acquaintance asked him after 
his mother, he would answer, gravely: 

“Thank you, she is quite well, but war-time 


Flower and Thorn 


295 


makes her head ache rather. Though it is such an 
awful long way off, she hears the firing all the 
same.” 

Valerie was not forsaken. Every acquaintance 
she had seemed to have turned into a friend and to 
have rallied round her. Sandy was in a fair way to 
be spoilt with all the tenderness and toys lavished 
upon him. 

But now, oddly enough, Valerie preferred Jane 
Mallam’s company to that of any other woman. 
Her presence was bracing; she had no exaggerated 
ways or words to jar the poor, strained nerves. Her 
very naturalness, her frankness, was a prop. She 
did not call bad news good, nor did she meet mis- 
fortune half-an-inch on its way. She had no 
“views,” but a great hope and a vast compassion. 

Now and then, upon some perilous day, Valerie 
would shirk her friend, and spend hours pacing the 
street alone, waiting for early editions, for extra 
editions of the numerous papers now published. 

When she had not found the name she dreaded 
to find upon its columns, relief had momentarily 
made a glad woman of her, and she hurried home, 
and caught Sandy in her arms, and laughed and 
played like a girl. But the warmth of heart and 
the bounding hope passed, a thread of cold anxiety 


296 


Flower and Thorn 


came creeping back into her mind, the aching ap- 
prehension strained at her heart again. 

Every day Valerie wrote to David; every day she 
added to the pages which left by the weekly mail, 
and which, alas, might never reach the beleaguered 
town in which he was immured. 

What letters, with an awakened soul upon the 
pen, were those that left our shores. 

This evening Jane and Sandy were close to- 
gether as they manoeuvred the busy soldiers of the 
fort, but over the boy’s flaxen curls Jane surrep- 
titiously scanned his mother’s face. 

“It’s a bad day, Valerie.” 

“It is, indeed.” 

“You are conjecturing. ‘Hard pressed,’ and then 
came the clouds. Don’t you think that we all fight 
best ‘hard pressed?’ ” 

“The light gone, the sun blotted out, Jane; it is 
terrible — like — like an omen.” 

“Val, Val, don’t be superstitious. Superstition is 
an insult to God. You have not been out to-day; 
you should have gone out.” 

“I get hopeful when I go out sometimes, and 
when I come home the truth is piercing, like some- 
thing new. I dread it.” 

“Feeling is in waves; it ebbs and flows.” 


Flower and Thorn 


297 

“Don’t talk. I can’t understand,” said Sandy, 
feeling himself slighted. He found something inex- 
plicably reliable about downright Jane, and he 
loved her. In the forefront of his mimic battle was 
a battered soldier of heroic tendencies, whom he 
called “faver,” and whose exploits shook his hear- 
ers’ nerves more than they would have owned. 

“I’ll tell you a story, Sandy. We won’t play any 
more; it is nearly your bedtime. Valerie, I am 
dining with you to-night. Wilfred is out.” 

“Wilfred” of late had been out a great deal and 
so Valerie said, patting Jane on the broad shoulder. 

Valerie had only two rooms in Priory Terrace 
now. To please David, she was husbanding funds. 
Everything that could be done for David was to be 
accomplished, even to the guarding of her health. 

When Sandy was asleep, the two women went 
downstairs together to their dinner, and fell to talk- 
ing, as those talk who walk as friends. It was bet- 
ter, as Valerie had told Sandy, not to walk through 
life alone. It was safer to hold hands. A human 
grasp is a staff and a consolation. Soon after din- 
ner came the last edition of the paper for that day; 
they had been listening for it while they talked; 
they read it together. 

“Nothing new,” they cried in one breath; but 


298 


Flower and Thorn 


searching on breathlessly nevertheless, until no 
likely line nor nook had escaped them. 

“Nothing more,” said Valerie. Nothing but a 
night filled with heavy sleep, broken by restless 
dreams, and an early, sudden, full awakening to a 
half-suspected truth, between her and to-morrow’s 
news — the “something more,” for which she lived. 

“The Yeomanry have gone out, I see,” said Jane. 
“They arrived this morning. Lady Alice saw her 
husband off. I met her to-day. She is going to be 
in London so as to get the latest news. People gos- 
siped, but she is fond of him. She is going to 
work among the soldiers’ wives and children; poor 
thing. He worked like a trooper before he sailed; 
his enthusiasm was catching.” 

“God bless him,” said Valerie, choking. “I feel I 
could kiss the dust off the boots of every man who 
volunteers. What good there is, what boundless 
good in everyone.” 

Then she folded her paper and rang the bell. 

“This goes to the kitchen, Jane; they are so keen. 
Bent” (she alluded to her landlord) “is an old sol- 
dier. He never went to bed that night we heard of 
Nicholson’s Nek. He tramped up and down above 
me. We made a friendship then that will last us 
our lives. He puts a good face on it all to me; he 


Flower and Thorn 


299 


won’t allow me a pang though he feels them him- 
self. ‘Let ’em come out,’ he says, ‘come out, that’s 
all I want of ’em, ’m, come out in the open.’ He is 
no pessimist; he will not allow a doubting word. 
He is splendid.” 

“Everyone is splendid,” said Jane, slowly. “A 
few months ago, before we knew what was coming, 
detraction was the fashion. We all met together to 
laugh at our neighbours, to criticise, to scandalise, 
to pull down, to detract. We don’t now; we talk 
differently now; some better part of us has been 
wrenched into sight. Good, good, good every- 
where. It meets us everywhere. You and I have 
our hearts in this war, but there are others who 
have none of their own at the front, but they give, 
and give, and yet have more to give. Look at 
those people, the Mirehouses; we scoffed at them; 
they were snobs, they bragged, they had silly weak- 
nesses which we hadn’t. Look at them, they have 
pauperised themselves for the fund; they have 
raffled their horses and given the money to their 
country. They did not leave richer people to help; 
they helped themselves. It makes one choky, Val, 
to talk of it; but it is a proud thing to hear. There 
are a thousand, a hundred thousand instances like 
this one ; they are too common to dwell upon, too 


300 


Flower and Thorn 


ordinary to be impressive. Ah, we shall give up 
scoffing in the better days to come, please God.” 

The better days of which Jane spoke were still far 
off. ^ 

The loosening from the tension of the bitter an- 
guish of piercing anxiety was not yet; but there 
came a day, a never-to-be-forgotten day, when the 
heavens opened, and light fell upon the land once 
more. 

Valerie was writing listlessly in her room; her 
listlessness was suddenly dispelled. She heard a 
sound; she heard an unknown, unexperienced new 
sound, a sobbing laugh, an inarticulate burst of 
voices, a volume of uncontrolled emotion breaking 
out from within the house close to her. She lis- 
tened. Her pen fell from her hand. She was on her 
feet in an instant. Simultaneously Sandy broke 
into the room. 

“Muvver, listen, hark, hear; it’s good news come. 
It is good news at last.” 

The front door was open. All the household 
were in the road. 

There was the sound of a bell; the town crier, an 
old soldier, who in these stirring times sat day after 
day at the telegraph station waiting grimly for 
news, was ringing his bell like a wedding peal in 


Flower and Thorn 


301 


Priory Terrace, and shouting out his glad message 
to the world. 

Valerie went out, tears running unknown down 
her cheeks, and the crier stopped shouting, and ran 
and shook her by the hand, and shook Sandy’s 
hand too, and strange people who lived near came 
running too. Again and again they caught each 
other by the hand, and they kissed the boy, and 
laughed, and could not speak. 

Then Valerie and Sandy left their friends and 
went back into their room. Valerie fell down upon 
her knees, holding Sandy passionately to her. 

“Thank God, thank God, thank God !” 

Oh, joy unutterable; oh, bliss unfathomable! 

“Sandy, Sandy, my own, my sweet. It is not us 
alone, Sandy, but our Queen and country; we must 
kneel — kneel ” 

And Sandy burst out crying, and she was calm 
again, a light-headed, weird veneer of calmness 
over her surging heart. 

She could not stay indoors. She dressed Sandy. 
He took a union jack off his fort, and they went 
out hand in hand. 

The sleepy town of Leigh was awake. It was 
stirred to its depths; it was a fire. 

From every house streamers and flags dropped 


302 


Flower and Thorn 


from the windows. The shops closed. The people 
poured into the streets; they formed into groups, 
broke into wild cheering; they sang the national 
anthem; they shook strangers by the hand; they 
laughed and sang and shouted; they wept. Pro- 
cessions formed, bands played, the church bells 
were set ringing, the schools made holiday. 

Valerie and Sandy walked on and on. She held 
her boy ever by the hand, drunk with the joy of it, 
ill with the joy of it. 

Relieved, this is what the word meant to the 
land. Relieved, relieved. The anguish of fear had 
ploughed deep into the nation’s heart, and the deep 
furrow left bare flowed now with holy joy. 

Weak and faint, with a light head and a tight 
throat, fever in her limbs and eyes, Valerie walked 
on and on, turning now and then to retrace her 
steps, stopping constantly for a greeting, to speak 
of what she never afterwards could quite recall, on 
and on she walked. 

At last before her rose the great Cathedral pile. 
It was here her way had led her. 

Tired Sandy drooped, holding heavily to her 
hand. She stooped and kissed him tenderly. 

“Come in, sweetheart, and — and rest,” she said. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“Whene’er a noble deed is wrought, 

Whene’er is spoken a noble thought. 

Our hearts in glad surprise 
To higher levels rise. 

The tidal waves of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls, 

And lifts us unawares 
Out of all meaner cares.” 

Many a long month, fraught with a personal, if 
no longer with a national, anxiety, passed before 
Valerie got David safely home to her. 

No special distinction, no decoration, nothing 
save the honour of a man who had fought and en- 
dured for his country was his; but in the eyes of 
those who loved him, this was glory sufficient. 

No public demonstration was enacted for the 
lean, grey-haired warrior, who, with a hardened 
frame, and a lined, bronzed face, and a hot heart, 
returned to England. 

But he had his reward. Our personal world is 
limited, and the welcome of his little world con- 
tented him, fulfilling his finest expectations, and 
redeeming the hard times through which he had 
steadfastly existed. 


304 


Flower and Thorn 


In many a diverse way was life henceforth to be 
beautified for him. 

Even in the cat and dog days, when home had 
Leen a hot-bed for breeding of difficulty, doubt and 
remorse, Valerie had been the one woman in the 
world to him. It lay in her power to make or mar 
his daily life, and now she chose to make it — to 
make it happy. She was not ashamed to press her 
love upon him. 

With Valerie, as with David, the piercing, and 
yet long drawn out horrors of the momentous 
weeks through which they had lived, had left a 
track upon them, had cut a mark, the scar of which 
nothing on this earth had power to eradicate. 

They had faced death, looked into open graves, 
endured separation, lived amongst a thousand 
forms of splendid human sacrifice, strung them- 
selves to heroism in silence, and now that life was 
easier, they still were earnest; awed, serious. 

They put away littleness; they lived as those who 
remembered that they have but a short time in 
which to work for the happiness of those they love. 
They had no longer a graceful knack of ignoring 
the common lot of man. They kept the inevitable 
well in sight. 


Flower and Thorn 


305 

“God rest you, merry gentlemen, 

Let nothing you dismay.” 

They were “undismayed,” and they were happy. 
He was simple-minded, as are the majority of his 
kind. She was not given to tall talk and vainglory. 
Now and again, as is inevitable, the domestic path 
took a difficult turn, but if that pernicious member 
— the tongue — threatened danger, it was evaded, 
for the smoothing down followed hot and eager on 
the ruffling up. 

The aggrieved was enlightened, and understood 
— understood both the mortal weakness and the 
immortal love. 

Later, David’s service told upon his professional 
success. He did not join his regiment in India. 
The separation from Sandy, to which his parents 
had in imagination steeled themselves, had not to 
be endured, for David was given an appointment 
on the staff at home. 

Old Mrs. Guthrie had died somewhat suddenly. 
Sufficient money was inherited by her son to ease 
considerably the Guthries’ economies. There was 
no longer any perceptible tug at the purse-strings. 

Valerie had a fresh bed of heartsease at her new 
quarters; one which she assiduously cultivated, and 


Flower and Thorn 


which blossomed month in, month out, as pansies 
do. 

The new garden had no drawback, except that 
between it and Leigh there lay a hundred and more 
solid miles. Valerie was faithful to friends, and sen- 
timental too, about her first home, and she thought 
of it with regret. But she had imported from 
thither one of her best friends; at the time of which 
I speak, Jane was with her; Jane was spending a 
week with her cousins, and at this moment, in ac- 
cordance with Mrs. Mallam’s industrious habits, 
she was kneeling by the bed of pansies, slicing off 
spent heads, with a certain relish that Valerie 
watched from beneath the shade of a great Japanese 
lawn umbrella, and mildly disapproved. 

“Your superior energy always quenches mine, 
Jane,” said Valerie, lazily. “I think you indus- 
trious people paralyse industry.” 

“Valerie, you are looking suspicious. I don’t 
believe you like me to touch your pansies.” 

“My dear, don’t you remember I am always a 
jealous woman?” 

“Are you not ashamed?” 

“Yes, I am ashamed; but I can’t help it.” 

Jane got up clumsily, closing her scissors. 

‘‘Ah, Jane, you and David are equally Scotch. 


Flower and Thorn 


307 


You never understand the simplest joke. Go on 
with snippetings — you are very useful.” 

Jane went on; she liked work; she liked to work 
and talk; she did so now. 

“Valerie, you can’t bear to see this wholesale 
weeding out. It must be done.” 

“Of course, death is not fair to see. We crowd 
out all tokens of dissolution.” 

“Naturally. It’s more wholesome.” 

“Is it? I’m not sure. It comes pretty close 
once, you see. Sometimes I fancy it would be a 
good thing to remember more. If one of our own 
has a mortal illness on them, how their lives get 
smoothed out; how we rally round, and try every 
minute to help them. They wonder at the sudden 
outpouring of our tender care. ‘How good you 
are,’ they say. ‘How kind you are.’ The world 
would be an easier place to live in if we remembered 
that, so to speak, we have everyone of us got a 
mortal disease to snuff us out.” 

“Val, are you apostrophising your pansies?” 

“No. I was thinking of the war. I’m always 
thinking of it. I mean, it shapes my thoughts.” 

“What were you thinking?” 

“I was thinking that when David was away I 
used to long and pray for time. Let me have time. 


3o8 


Flower and Thorn 


if I may have time, only a little time. When the 
time is lost, we sufifer, Jane.’’ 

“Poor Valerie.” 

“I don’t feel at all poor.” 

“You appreciate peace.” 

“The phrase ought to run — War and Peace. We 
cannot guess what peace is, until we have had 
war.” 

“You and I were at war once,” said Jane. “You 
held me at arm’s length.” 

“Yes; don’t remind me. I’m not proud of my- 
self in those days. I was jealous.” 

“I never quite believed that fable.” 

“It was true enough,” ruefully. 

There still lurked about this sobered Valerie an 
attractiveness which made itself felt in all her ways, 
and words, and works, and which was inseparable 
from her. She was charming, embued by those 
nameless graces of which Jane was singularly and 
consciously lacking. No wonder Jane was scep- 
tical. 

“It was crazy.” 

“Oh, no, it wasn’t.” 

“Poor David ; he never knew that I, as a woman, 
existed.” 


Flower and Thorn 


3Q9 

“Now, don’t be too humble, Jane, for I am just a 
shade jealous of you now. Your housekeeping, 
your memory, your dear nice self, makes me 
jealous still.” 

“Pshaw, I don’t believe you. If David, dear 
man, had, by some aberration of intellect, made 
love to me, he would have been justified in so 
doing.” 

“Why?” 

“You deliberately allured Mr. Wetheral.” 

For a moment there was silence. 

“There is a Wetheral war truce too,” she said, at 
length. “You know she nursed him like a brick; 
he is quite strong now; they are friends.” 

“So I heard,” said Jane. 

“Here are David and Sandy,” said Valerie, 
rising. She was not sorry to change the subject, 
and she advanced to welcome the pair, notwith- 
standing the summer heat of this afternoon. 

David Guthrie had been sea-fishing with his son. 
The son was so smeared with scales that he was in- 
stantly banished to be stripped of his fishing jer- 
sey. David sat himself down in the shade of the 
Japanese umbrella, and yawned with that freedom 
of expression peculiar to domestic life. 


310 


Flower and Thorn 


“Sandy wears one out; he is always within an 
ace of tumbling overboard, and his tongue never 
ceases. Where is tea?” 

Valerie addressed Jane: 

“Where is tea? David thinks that I drink tea 
from three to six every afternoon. He is aggrieved 
if he does not find tea freshly brewed at whatever 
hour he comes in. Home is always suggestive of 
food to a husband.” 

David, with a placid smile, looked at Jane. 

“I thought women drank tea all day.” 

“Pouf, David, that was one of your bachelor de- 
lusions. You thought tea would be always fresh 
made, creamed, and ready for you. You thought 
your wife would be always amiable, and beautifully 
dressed. You thought of high living, and low 
books. You thought of untiring service, and dry 
weather — as a bachelor. Poor green men, their 
wishes father all these delusions.” 

Jane fastened her garden scissors with a click, 
upon her chatelaine. “Pll go in and hurry tea,” 
said she, disappearing within the precincts of the 
house. 

Valerie remembered that at one time she would 
have judged this kind action to be officious. 

“How good of Jane,” said she, aloud. 


Flower and Thorn 


3" 


“She is a good sort. Nowadays, you two seem 
very thick.” 

“At last I appreciate her. I understand her bet- 
ter. I’m rather characterless; both you and she 
have distinct characters; you puzzled me. I used 
to judge you by myself. It is the easiest sort of 
judgment.” 

“I don’t think that I judge the people I love.” 

“Yes,” coolly, “you do. You were never so fond 
and foolish as to be witless, except during your 
courtship and honeymoon. Fools’ paradises, you 
see, are only for fools.” 

“You are argumentative to-day.” 

“You’d never talk to me, David, unless I argued. 
In self-defence I argue. I like you to talk. You 
never talked much, but since the war you are so 
silent; you sit and think, and think, till your fore- 
head is furrowed, and your eyes sunken.” 

She laid her hand on his arm, and her eyes were 
tender. 

“I’m the happiest man in the world, Val.” 

“Then tell me so; tell me so, often. It is so 

# 

strengthening to hear you say that. 

“You know it.” 

“When we two sit here in a sort of understand- 
ing, silent companionship, I know it. I know you 


312 


Flower and Thorn 


are happy. But our life is so different to what you 
thought it would be; there are so many up-hill 
places.” 

“Life is all a climb, from start to finish.” 

“But you started matrimony with the dream of 
a level plain.” 

“A dream may be very sweet, but it’s only a 
dream. A solid bit of life-climbing is worth all the 
dreams in the world.” 

“The climbing dogs the honeymoon, David; up 
together, down together, up again, or a stiff, bitter 
wrench apart, and diverse paths.” 

“You speak as if you remember the difficul- 
ties well.” 

“Do you think that a recollection of the down- 
hill slips spoils the climbing?” 

“Do you think disaster spoils the taste of later 
success? We all know better. It was the good 
news after the bad news from the front that sent the 
people mad with delight.” 

Valerie was thoughtful. 

“Don’t hark back to bad times,” he said, “except 
by way of contrast.” 

“Don’t you ever hark back?” 

“Never now. When we had the sea between us, 
I used to curse, because of the bad time I’d given 


Flower and Thorn 


313 


you. I knew if they had got me, you’d have been 
left as poor as a rat, and it used to be hard work 
not to shirk the bullets. I knew you’d pare a stone, 
and skin a flint for Sandy, as indeed you did, and 
grow as thin as a bird-cage, Val.” 

“A bird-cage, David. I’m not as bad as that; but 
here’s my plump rival, with creature comforts. 
Dear Jane, we are so much obliged to you.” 


THE END. 


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